Mair...

A funeral today. How many have I attended? Less than two handfuls but I’m sure they’ll begin to come thick and fast soon enough.

Mair (not Mary) our next door neighbour in Wales. Our good, keeping an eye on things, pick up the post, put the bins out, and get Will to cut our hedge, lovely, caring, always ready to have a chat neighbour, Mair. Her passing not expected, not even suspected, so sudden a downhill slide and not old at seventy six.

The funeral beautiful. Service at home in her spotless, immaculate, neat and tidy living room. Closed coffin surrounded by friends dressed in black. An honour to be invited to attend, a ‘private’ affair, close and closest in the way of small communities. Words spoken in Welsh, not understood, but understood, the passing words spoken by the preacher.

Tears.

The postman delivering the post mid-through and I picking up the cards from the carpet to place on the polished sideboard. Then Mair leaving her home of all her life for that last time, wheeled to the waiting hearse followed by a trail of black.

Tears.

The chapel cemetery. Sunshine and mud, a glimpse of the sea, the gulls soaring overhead, husband, son-in-law, grandson and friend lifting the coffin to the greengrocer grass disguised grave. Lowering gently with black ropes and words. Mary Elisabeth Jones on coffin plaque, not Mair after all then.

Tears.

After, tea with sandwiches and barath bread at the Lion. Words spoken gently, kindly, light laughter, remembering.

Smiles.

Mary Elisabeth Jones and always Mair to us - we will miss you.