B's Funeral

I found out about her death while on holiday in Wales. Like me she was part of the baby boom, born in 1947. I had know her since we worked together as teenagers. She died three days after her sixtieth birthday. It was her funeral yesterday.

I’ve a wardrobe full of black. But the constant rain had given way to sunshine and humidity, and I wanted to wear a dress. The only appropriate dress I had was the black shift I'd worn for Jon’s sentencing. I thumbed through my wardrobe trying to find it. There it was at the very back. I held it close. Trying it on, I relived the anguish and terror I'd felt about the sentence Jon was going to receive. How my heart thumped as I stood on the podium pleading with the judge for leniency, choking back tears, recalling how my beautiful bundle of energy became a grade A student, an honours degree graduate, and why I felt it all went wrong. I took the dress off, put it back and on the hanger, and returned it to the darkness of the wardrobe.

I wore a black trouser suit and tee shirt with a gold cross and chain that Dan bought me when we were first married.

B was a big, bouncy redhead. She was one of those people who fill a room with their presence. The church was overflowing with friends she’d collected throughout her life, wherever she went. Everyone had a funny story to tell about Barbara.

In a poem, chosen by her, she asked her friends not to mourn her death but to smile and celebrate her life, and have the sixtieth party she wasn’t able to physically attend.

Thank you B for the friendship and support you gave me.

Copyright © 2007 Barbara Attwood