A Funeral

The news always hit me hard. I guess it doesn't really matter on how much you knew the person as the fact that you actually knew them, and now they're actually not there any more.

A funeral in Cyprus is a family affair, but mostly it's a woman's affair too.

The Church

You walk in. Everyone dressed in the appropriate black and gloomy attire. 
Faces are looking down. They are looking miserable the very least. Or sad. Or remorseful of some kind. The relatives are easy to spot. Their eyes are all puffy and red. Too much crying. The horror. The shock of their loved one gone forever more is discerned all over their face. You walk in silence. You go and pay your respects to the relative. The deceased lies in the coffin with the little window for you to behold. 

"This is me. This is my last facial expression. Look at me. For in a few moments, this flesh will no longer be in sight of this world."

You walk to your sit. The liturgy summons the beginning of the end. Or the end of a new beginning. Depends on how one decides to view the matter of death. 

It is a dreary process. Filled with prayers and psalms. 
You glorify the spirit of the deceased, and wish their soul a peaceful journey on.

The moment of dread; the tears, the inconsolable need to shed your skin in front of acquaintances and relatives. Of people who even played a small part in the decease's life. You cannot hold it any more. The woe and the lamentations. The dirges of their loved ones. They move you. They create a heavy burden on your chest. You cannot help but, if not sympathize, the very least empathize and share their grief. You feel like drowning. No matter how much you will try to escape the tears, they come, unwanted and thick, running down your plump cheeks. 


The Burial

Now it's the moment to give to the deceased their last resting place. Their last home.
Unlike the humanly comforts, this place is simple, filled with nature, flowers and the utter silence. 
Going back to the basics if you will. One comes from soil, one becomes soil. 

A long procession of walking to the burial place. The heat blinds you.
Intermingled sweat and tears. You can no longer distinguish between the two.
You always feel like a mournful spectator of this. You sense the grief, but do you let it consume you?

The priest condones the soul to the Holy Heavens. 
His psalms send a meaning of hope for the one who has already departed.
His words offer but little comfort to the already burdened heart. 

Everyone is drained. Exhausted and morose by this point. 
Some wish for solace. Others for absolution.
The crying and the wallowing lies heavy in your unwilling ears.
You learn to bear it after a while. After the church.

The dead is white. Peaceful now. 
And you're red. With too much crying. 
Feeling like a wreck at the end of the day. 

The moment of truth. You have to stand and throw dirt on the decease. 
Prepare him for the ashes to ashes and dust to dust journey. 

Scorching sun mortally wounding your eyes. 
You almost feel like you will quickly melt into ash as well.


The Comfort Coffee or (otherwise known as the English cup-'o-tea that makes everything okay again)

You walk into a house full of strangers or people you haven't seen in god knows how long.
You're polite, kind, soft and endearing know. You offer comfort and sympathy. 
They call it the comfort coffee cause you're suppose to supply the bereaved ones with that. 
If you haven't exhausted your already capacity to still feel and you haven't as yet succumbed to numbness, you offer comfort and solace. And many many hugs.

There's of course the chit chat. Some go for that. Some just sit by a corner and eat the savory pastries in silence. Contemplating the loneliness that will come soon after. You try to mingle - in these situations its kind of hard not too. 

"How did you know the deceased? Were you friends? Colleagues? Acquaintances?" 

You form your relationship to the dead and the living. 
Try not to be swallowed up by the overwhelming number of questions.

As soon as you come back from the burial, the women of the family are hurrying about to feed and make coffee and supply everyone with refreshments of some sort. It's like I'm watching 'The Godfather', a Sicilian family trying to keep it together and be there for the ones who lost someone. The women are always in need to provide food and comfort. The hearth is a great comfort in itself. No matter of the eerie feeling of the dead in the house lurking about. 

You're stranded there. One hour, two, three, maybe four or five. 
You try to make your presences as little of a burden as you possibly can. 
Can you?

The Departure

Finally, slowly and ever so gently the people one by one leave.
The family is quiet now. Even more so than before.
Everything is spoken in soft whispers.

You gently hug and kiss.
Offer your company, you presence.

"For whatever you need, I will be here."

Are you? How often? How long?

You slowly fade away from their sight.
You expire in their memory.
They do too.




At the end of the day, every funeral has its own story.
Every life, has its own tale to tell.
And every living soldier, has their own path to trend.
Alone. Quietly. In peace.



She wasn't a famous woman. But she was kind.
She will always be remembered. Fondly.


May you rest in peace.

Soar on!

Band of Horses - The Funeral