Two days ago I went to an exhibition called "Black in fashion: From mourning to night". I wandered freely around the space wishing for shawls and mantles tut tutting myself for packing only stupid floppy clothes and my red clown shoes to wear for the whole holiday.
Tonight I am laying out my own black things in careful layers from socks to scarf. People say I don't need to wear black to a funeral, just wear something clean and tidy, like a wild throwback to the days of children in school uniforms at official functions but I like the ritual. I can do without the weddings and the christenings, I rolled up my prayer mat years ago and lord knows my hair is not a covenant between me and anything but I like the ritual of grief and the standing of us all in rows.
I can't remember the order of funerals I have attended. I remember the ones I was absent from. I remember the man before Artboy that attempted suicide again and again before he finally got it right but I wasn't there in the end. I wasn't standing in my place in that row. I was sitting on the floor conjuring silken memories of golden skin and his impossible height, remembering how I used to lay on top of him and my feet would reach the middle of his shins.
I remember the strange swelling of the Estonian choir at my Grandmother's funeral, the hard ball of centuries coming right in across from that frozen ocean. I remember the old men standing guard for my Grandfather's coffin, their sword hands faltering and the one who fell to his knees in the aisle. I remember my brother staring up at me tear stained and ragged, his eyes wide with the shock of his own grief and my Mother. My Mother sitting at a table with a plate full of tiny sandwiches whispering to herself under her breath and the whole time her face hard and soft and alien.
I remember the ones who should have died but didn't. I remember taking blow after blow with the car keys firmly in my right fist. I should have let him drive. I should have held them out in sacred silence and let Artboy open the portal to my own ritual of grief. Instead I stood like a column with my purpling swelling face under the manic blows of a madman's fist until he ran screaming into the night and the car sat silent in the driveway.
Tomorrow I am an extra. A demonstration of the importance the main players hold in my glass jar. My memories of the man are small and new. He played the piano while I waltzed in his lounge room. We sat side by side on the lounge eating cakes. We shared a cup of tea and a laugh while the cricket droned and he watched and I watched his wife watching him with her glass of juice half way between the kitchen bench and her mouth, then she smiled. He was dying and watching cricket and she was smiling into her juice. She was beautiful standing in her kitchen fixing memories in her head nodding a quiet nod and mending her courage.
I'll take my place in the row tomorrow in my black pressed clothes. I'll drive the distance and sit in silence, I'll curb my rambling mind and leave my clown shoes in the cupboard. This is something that matters.
Tonight I am laying out my own black things in careful layers from socks to scarf. People say I don't need to wear black to a funeral, just wear something clean and tidy, like a wild throwback to the days of children in school uniforms at official functions but I like the ritual. I can do without the weddings and the christenings, I rolled up my prayer mat years ago and lord knows my hair is not a covenant between me and anything but I like the ritual of grief and the standing of us all in rows.
I can't remember the order of funerals I have attended. I remember the ones I was absent from. I remember the man before Artboy that attempted suicide again and again before he finally got it right but I wasn't there in the end. I wasn't standing in my place in that row. I was sitting on the floor conjuring silken memories of golden skin and his impossible height, remembering how I used to lay on top of him and my feet would reach the middle of his shins.
I remember the strange swelling of the Estonian choir at my Grandmother's funeral, the hard ball of centuries coming right in across from that frozen ocean. I remember the old men standing guard for my Grandfather's coffin, their sword hands faltering and the one who fell to his knees in the aisle. I remember my brother staring up at me tear stained and ragged, his eyes wide with the shock of his own grief and my Mother. My Mother sitting at a table with a plate full of tiny sandwiches whispering to herself under her breath and the whole time her face hard and soft and alien.
I remember the ones who should have died but didn't. I remember taking blow after blow with the car keys firmly in my right fist. I should have let him drive. I should have held them out in sacred silence and let Artboy open the portal to my own ritual of grief. Instead I stood like a column with my purpling swelling face under the manic blows of a madman's fist until he ran screaming into the night and the car sat silent in the driveway.
Tomorrow I am an extra. A demonstration of the importance the main players hold in my glass jar. My memories of the man are small and new. He played the piano while I waltzed in his lounge room. We sat side by side on the lounge eating cakes. We shared a cup of tea and a laugh while the cricket droned and he watched and I watched his wife watching him with her glass of juice half way between the kitchen bench and her mouth, then she smiled. He was dying and watching cricket and she was smiling into her juice. She was beautiful standing in her kitchen fixing memories in her head nodding a quiet nod and mending her courage.
I'll take my place in the row tomorrow in my black pressed clothes. I'll drive the distance and sit in silence, I'll curb my rambling mind and leave my clown shoes in the cupboard. This is something that matters.
Comments
it was momentous meeting you in Melbourne, I was going to rope you into attending my Einstein Factor recording but I think you had propelled back to Sydney by then :(
Rups :) xo
Yes. I have been meaning to email or something but I have only been home for about twelve hours since my plane landed. I've had a funeral and a wedding and lord knows what else. Rituals rituals. So tired.
xd
NWJR,
Thanks.
Very nice.