Broken

"I wake up
And the day feels
Broken"
--Bjork

The alarms woke us but we couldn't wake up. We were dragged out of bed by an awful necessity. It seemed to take a long time to get ready.

There was a time of just sitting and waiting for others to arrive so we could all drive together to the crematorium. Conversation was impossible. We shared a few words about the oppressive weather and how we felt heavy, tired, dazed and dull.

Then there was the waiting and loitering outside the crematorium, having slow, subdued, almost muttered exchanges with various people as they arrived, but also keeping to ourselves. Sometimes clustering for comfort, sometimes taking time alone.

The sight of the coffin was surreal. The concept of what was inside inconceivable. The expressions on the faces of the pallbearers however was very real; A complexity and transparency of grief, disbelief, of knowing that they were being watched and of trying to maintain a stoic face; of focussing on the task of carrying the weight, walking together in time, in step; keeping it smooth. There had been no rehearsal. The ceremony was moving. Both difficult and calm. Perfect speeches. Amazing displays of strength. We laughed and we cried collectively. There was that time of stillness as the curtains drew across in front of the coffin and a final song was played; A love song that for me is now rendered simply beautiful, and will now always make me cry.

At the end, the widow was required to exit first. Walking down the aisle, accompanied, in the opposite direction to a new bride. Her face was set in an attempt to show no emotion; holding her breath. A mask. As she neared the end of that long walk, she took a huge breath, rolled her head upwards and closed her eyes in a moment of thank god i made it thru. A private moment of her cracking open for just a second. I was unravelled.

Afterwards there time spent in road-accident traffic waiting and waiting for something to move, for the policewoman to wave in our direction and let OUR lane progress for once. Frustrating gridlock with the next venue almost walking distance.

But we were not late. We arrived not long before the hundreds of guests were due so we rushed, rushed, rushed to organise the flowers and trestle table, the DVD, signature books, souvenir cards; put out containers of nibblies; see to the caterers; grab a glass of water before dehydrating. And another glass. So thirsty.

People started arriving and from then it didn't stop. We stood and talked to each other, hugged, laughed, reminisced, commiserated, bemoaned the loss, the unfairness, the pain; looked up, looked away to choke down the tears that unexpectedly wanted to spring out; assessed life and lives led; the sum of a great life - the regret of its ending and the celebration of so much achieved in just 54 years. Looked wide eyed and happy and excited to unexpectedly meet old friends we'd lost contact with; talked fast to catch up on everything; met new people, made new friends. Saw whole other parts to a life, of which we'd each only known a sliver.

Cried when the party over in L.A., via satellite link, gave speeches so simple and from the heart, unrehearsed and at times lost for words, that is was impossible not to share their grief openly.
We talked and mingled, and listened to speeches, raised our glasses to toast a great man greatly missed.

Moving in and around the great hall, out to the garden area, out the front, into cars; cars followed each other like a train across the city and down to a restaurant and we sat and finally- for the first time that day - ate! and laughed and at a random comment felt sad, but kept the banter going non stop in order to ward off any maudlin displays.

I reached a kind of pinnacle of over-extroversion––almost frantic––having talked and conversed and been around people all day in a state of deep grief, in a deeply personal encounter with everyone. We had all hugged and kissed, cried and consoled each other in a far more intimate way than ever before or after; a special––and temporary––breaking thru of certain physical and social barriers. People I'd seen a few times in the last year only now told me very personal things. Now it was appropriate to talk about the loss of family members, wives, closest loved ones.

The day had trundled on non-stop. Intensely.
When I finally drove home my head was hot. It felt like it might explode.The headache i'd woken with, came to bed with me; then drifted off sometime in the short night.
And soon it was tomorrow.