The Tribune

By DIANE PHILLIPS

On Monday, the sea that had a slight chop only a little while earlier laid down flat, like a turquoise blanket as if to open its arms for what it was going to receive, the ashes of two family members. We were there to bid a final farewell to my husband’s sister and her husband, the elders of the family, though they were too young to have died, we kept thinking, with too much still to live for, too much love left to share. They were holding hands as he passed. A part of her died that day, though her heart kept beating for another year. Sometimes she would forget he was gone, or maybe could not believe it, and would ask a visitor if they had seen him, her eyes alight with hope. And then she, too, was gone. Finally, this week, with family members from here and those who had moved away over the decades gathered, we were all together for the first time in many years, death uniting us in a way that life had not.

It was a beautiful ceremony on the water, two boats rafted up together, separated only by bumpers, like the lives of the long-wed couple we were there to remember, the fenders providing enough space to keep the boats from colliding, but close enough to keep them side-by-side. It felt symbolic of the relationship we had all witnessed before death stole them from us. 

The scene was serene -- the calm waters, the cloudless brilliant blue winter sky, rays of sunshine bathing bare arms, the extraordinarily talented grandson, a college Music major, playing acoustic guitar. Glasses were passed with my sister-in-law’s favourite champagne, plates with her husband’s favourite finger foods right down to the exact pickle he loved, the Hawaiian print shirts worn by men aboard in his honour, a pastor who shared stories that brought tears and laughter. Humour filled spaces where sadness threatened to go. There were no prepared speeches or eulogies, just spoken words from the heart, snippets and slices of life that stirred memories and paid homage to two people who will never be with us in body but never leave us in spirit.

We watched as the wind, tide and gentle waves carried the ashes and flowers, white roses and rose petals, purple orchids stems and petals.

On Saturday, I shall attend another funeral, the mother of a dear friend. I will weep as I always do and mouth the words to hymns as I listen to others who have voices far better than mine sing them aloud.

We have all attended far too many funerals, four or five in the last month between my husband, daughters and myself. But nothing has stood out like the farewell at sea that was so personal, family only and one pastor whose offering was simple - equal doses of dignity and humour.  Maybe because of the way we said farewell, watching the rose and orchid petals float gently out to sea, a sense of peace settled upon us and though no one said the words, I thought this service, this memorial, this day will always stay with us, filling  our hearts in a way that was near to overflowing, a feeling deeper, stronger than it would have had it been a traditional church funeral.

I learned a few things from the recent farewells and memorials, too many, as I said. It is not the number of people who attend a service that matters, nor the breadth and height of the bouquets, or the length of prayers and sermons, but the stirring of the soul, the reliving of moments as if they had just happened, springing back to life, the deeper understanding of the legacy left by the person you lost, the responsibility you assume to live up to the standards for which they stood.

How you start a relationship is important but if there is a mistake, a misunderstanding, a wrong word, there is time to undo despite the oft-used phrase that you never get a second chance to make a first impression. 

Unlike saying hello, how you say farewell does not come with second chances.