At the crematorium

My cousin Joan died three weeks ago. She had Parkinson’s disease and the dementia that can accompany it. Her last couple of years were tough plus there were few visits allowed to her care home because of Covid.

There was a service at Lakeside Baptist Church. Joan and her husband, Bob, were founder members when Enon Baptist decided to plant a new church at Gilley Law. The young minister took an excellent service and the church was packed.

We then drove to the crematorium for the committal. It was a cold, damp, grey day and I wished I had donned thermals! There were a few family wreaths so we went, as is the custom, to view them. I took my Blip looking across to more floral tributes from other cremations. Petals, from wreaths that have been moved, strewed the grass.

My family members are usually cremated rather than buried. I prefer that. I hate to see forgotten and untended graves, but the crematorium is a soulless place. One cortège arrives hot on the heels of the previous one.

I met some family I did not know, or whom I had not seen since they were children. We went to Joan's daughter's house for refreshments and chat.

I am glad I was there.