A long lane at night

2.17. GOODBYE Part 1

** ALLAN **

AS YOU GROW OLDER, THE INEVITABILITY OF LIFE becomes a reality. You know that, if life is allowed to run its natural course, one day you'll say goodbye to your parents and you pray every day that your kids get to say goodbye to you and not the other way round. You try to live life to the fullest, doing all the things you love and sharing as many special moments with those who are special to you as possible. Some people get a chance to mend their relationships, others are given time to prepare and yet others are taken by an absolute shock. You can never truly say you're ready.

Another thing no one mentions, and they should, is that giving your loved ones a proper goodbye comes at a price, and I don't even mean the financial one. Your grief is punctured by decisions you never had to make before and your judgment is impaired by your personal need to do them one last moment of justice and, suddenly, you fear that you barely knew them at all.

'I have an idea,' Brian came to me as I stared at so many different dreadful brochures. 'It is a very unorthodox one, but something tells me it's the right thing to do. At least, I think it's what I want to do for her.'

My mind is tired and it welcomes the sweet possibility of a ready solution being handed on a silver platter like that. I don't really have the strength to be my usual bubbly self, so I merely tap my knees, indicating to my husband I want him to sit on them. When he does, I wrap my arms around him, being thankful for the comfort and support this man has given me for more than three decades. I thank the heavens for my blessing and I try my hardest to not think of the day life will do us part.

I snuggle my nose on his chest to scare the dark clouds away and then I look up to his face, indicating that I am ready to listen.

'I want to celebrate her!' Brian said, clearly being careful to not sound offensive. 'When, in all those years that I've known her, has she ever given me a single reason to mourn or to be solemn and sad? Why should we, now that we're paired with the task to honour her, succumb to all the sadness she worked so hard to ward off from our lives, hearts, and minds? Think about it. We've been crying our eyes out for three days already. When would Mama ever allow that to happen?'

'Can you imagine how she would be hating herself if she knew she were the reason why we've been crying for so long?' I catch myself asking.

'Exactly! She gave all of her life, every second of it, to make us happy. Come on, she matchmade us just so she could see you smile again. She took me as her own son and not once did she ever treat me differently or less.'

'Less? She loved you more than me!'

'I want to say that you're wrong.'

'But you know you can't.'

Brian let out a small chuckle and I allowed myself to do the same. He was right. He was absolutely right. My mother's power was that she brought joy to our lives, not pain. I take one more glance at the service brochures in front of me and, disgusted by all of them, I toss them to the floor.

'What do you have in mind, my love?' I gently pulled Brian's streak of white hair behind his ear so I could get a better look at his face. His smooth thin cheeks are now a thing of the past, but I love every mark he carries, every sign that he has and is still living. Brian disclosed his plans to me and we went straight to the car to put them in motion.

One hour and a half later, we were inside Vicar Sherman's office at the church. He had tried to offer his formal condolences, but Brian and I stopped him right from the start.

'Ask yourself, Vicar,' I told him. 'What would my mother say if she saw you like this?'

Vicar Sherman allowed himself a grin. 'Say? She would slap me on top of my head and tell me to pull myself together because the congregation needs a strong leader.'

'And that's why we're here,' Brian said. 'Well, obviously not to smack you on the head, but to do things right by her. We want to order a mass, a special celebration of her life. We want you to preach the one thing you remember to have been her favourite, as I am sure she must have gone to the trouble of telling you which one it was.' We all laughed lightly at that remark and Vicar Sherman agreed with a 'she sure would'.

'We're not throwing her a wake and there will not be any eulogies,' I said. 'Instead, I want to invite you, her church lady friends, and also all of those you believe she has personally influenced to be a better version of themselves and who are willing to celebrate her life. We'll make sure to have everyone back here safe and sound. Can I count on you and her friends to come up with a list?'

'You sure can, son', said the Vicar.

Nate was also of invaluable help with our ideas. He made sure to take Alice with him so Jack could be close to us during those days when we were still waiting for his hearing with the family judge. From a standard perspective, Nate had done a great job at securing a meeting only ten days away from my mother's service. But that added up to a full fortnight Jack would be left in uncertainty and, as a father, I can assure that it's living hell. Especially with everything that was already going on.

The mass wasn't exactly my favourite part of the deal, but I gladly sat through it as a final gift to my mother. She never insisted I attended, though, but I knew she would be happy for my presence. Vicar Sherman gave a beautiful sermon about the importance of being of service to our fellow brothers and sisters and that totally struck me as my mother's favourite preaching.

The service was a closed one, but the church was almost at full capacity, with all of the guests being personally picked by her church lady friends and Vicar Sherman. When it ended, we had five vans waiting outside to take everyone to the Big House, where, amongst all of the holiday decorations, we had a lovely and slightly out-of-place winter barbecue under recently-placed canopies. Each one had their own heater and we were all considerably close to each other, so everyone was comfortable.

The setting reminded me of my wedding day and Brian, probably thinking the same, was the first one to speak fondly of what my mother had meant to him. He was careful to share the happiest memories, so every time me or anyone around us felt close to tears, we would involuntarily crack a smile.

At various points during the function, people would stand up and tell a story of how my mother had been there for them during a time of need. Sometimes for something as big as leaving a violent spouse, others, however, as simple as lending an ear when the day had been too tough to handle.

By the time the vans took all the guests back to the church, we were all feeling this bittersweet sensation in our hearts. We were sad to see mom go, but we were so much happier because she had crossed our paths.