Robin

I went to the funeral of one of my aunts yesterday. I used to be well-supplied with aunts – thirteen that I had met and there were several I never met, so haven’t counted.  They have now dwindled to two. Several of them were actually great aunts (and several were great-great aunts) and two were actually second cousins who were approximately aunt age. One is still alive and another, in South Africa, hasn’t answered a letter for a year or two, so it’s a Schrödinger’s Cat situation, where she is still alive until we get a letter to tell us differently.

I have been very bad at keeping in touch. As such, I have spent most of the night awake, contemplating ways I could have done better and thinking about family history.

There was a screen in the crematorium chapel, displaying my aunt’s photograph and (mis-spelt name). At her mother’s funeral the vicar used the wrong name all the way through – using her official first name when she was always known by her second name. Her father, in turn, was sent medals by a grateful nation in 1919, where his name was spelt wrongly on them and when the King sent his widow a memorial scroll, they spelt her name wrong too.

Some people are destined to achieve greatness, some are mere footnotes in history and, dragging along at the rear comes my family, with its name spelt wrong.

In a way, it was good to see the extension of family history into modern times – a century of misspelt names.

It was, as funerals go, well organised and upbeat and, as a final touch, a robin came out after the rain and sang us on our way. Of course, it’s only a superstition about robins, but, as they say, other superstitions are available.

Robin – singing

Part of the slide show featured my aunt’s wedding photo in 1961. It was wet and blustery day. I was given some confetti to throw, which I did. Nobody had told me I had to wait for the bride and groom and it fell in a lump into a puddle. On being told of my error I tried to retrieve it for re-use, but was told to leave it and try again with a new, dry batch. What struck me as I looked at the picture, was that I think there are only three of us left who were there that day. Possibly two (see note about Schrödinger’s Cat). My sister had been left with a babysitter as she was considered too small for the weather. She still nurses a grudge about that.

It’s a surprise to look round and realise that you are the oldest in the room. It’s time for a poem, I think. First published in Contemporary Haibun Online 20.1 Spring 2024.

The Next Funeral

Amazon reviews indicate I am not the only person to have searched for a black tie with next day delivery. I could have sworn it was in the car’s glove compartment, neatly folded from the last time I wore it. My one white shirt hangs, ghostlike, from the bedroom picture rail and my timeless drab tweed jacket hangs next to it. The tie, I suddenly remember, is in my jacket pocket.

Tomorrow, as I nod to cousins, we will remark that we really must try to meet without someone dying. My uncle, who has just turned ninety, tells his brother in law to wrap up warm or he’ll be next. One day, I suppose, I will realise there is no obvious candidate to be next . . .

in church the sun
shines through an angel’s robe
bubbles trapped in blue glass
I wonder whose breath is
captured forever