Remembering
A life well lived is a life well loved.
I went to a funeral today to the celebrate the life of Sandra, who recently passed away in my village at 59.
I didn’t know Sandra well, although she had the privilege of spending her whole life here. Our closest interactions were through her son, who was in the same primary school year as me. In my rural community there were only 3 classes which meant you developed an intimate bond with the children who grew with you from aged four to eleven and then onto the secondary school in the market town nearby, probably as shell-shocked as you.
I think we were the only two children who came from our village that year, travelling the mile or so to the primary school down the road. I remember Sandra and her son cycling in every day, even in rain and winter, across the bridle path that joined our community with the next. They always looked a grand tour of two, one bike following the other, little and large, and safe to say that when cycling proficiency came along in Year 5, her son was far too advanced to do it.
I grew up walking past Sandra’s house on the way to let our dog roam off the lead. Each time I passed the wooden-panelled cream door, I said an internal ‘hello’ to the family, always half-nosily glancing at the window, just in case I saw something interesting. Sandra’s husband used to DJ at the school discos, playing hit after hit like Mambo Number 5 and Cotton Eyed Joe; he also used to be the local milkman, so in my mind there was always the potential for something out of the ordinary. Most likely, though, you would see a couple of yappy dogs throwing themselves at the windowsill, suggesting their bark was much bigger than their bite, no onlooker being particularly keen to put that theory to the test. When I moved away, Sandra would come and walk our dog, Alfie, when my parents were out for the day. My mum says he absolutely adored her and it’s not hard to understand why.
Sandra’s quiet actions had a large impact on the community: caring at the social group for the elderly, helping people in the village. A couple who moved to Devon came back for the funeral today and I felt a sense of pride that I haven’t in a long while about where I grew up. The kind people showed up, the ones who knew me as a child.
Mine and Sandra’s son’s lives diverged long ago. Although we are the same age he has a soon-to-be eight year old daughter, the kind of responsibly that makes you step into adulthood beyond the parody I am often living.
But, we are both someone’s children. Today I sat at the back of the chapel, next to my mum and I sobbed. I didn’t expect to cry but Sandra was clearly so loved, the anecdotes read by the celebrant painting a picture of life vividly seen and known by her son, husband and loved ones. I learned that she adored Dianna Ross’s Chain Reaction and I then learned that even a disco classic can make you teary in a crematorium.
A long time ago I remember hearing the phrase, ‘why would you want to be anything other than kind when every person you know will lose everyone they love?’. I felt that today, thinking about a son who had lost the person he described as his best friend, a person who should have been around a lot longer.
Many of you will know that I made a permanent move back to Oxfordshire earlier in the year. It’s been a confronting time, carving out new parameters to relationships, particularly with my parents. I think more than anything it’s made me realise that vanity has little place in fulfilment. I am having a more balanced time, even back in my childhood home, than I did with the privilege of greater independence in London. I am learning that the most important thing, always, is to love fiercely. It feels good to be around people who have the time to give and receive that love. I hope Sandra knew how much she was loved. It felt palpable today and I wanted to bear witness to it.
Eden x