by G J Lee
Chapter 51
The Worst Feeling of All
It was cold and crisp and clear on the day of my Mum’s funeral. It was so cold that I blew steam from my mouth, pretending to be a train from one of those old films. I stood in our back garden and looked out over the roofs of our neighbourhood and remembered how different the houses of 1946 were. Then, a commotion at the front. Large cars were pulling up. Doors closed respectfully, gently.
Dad appeared at the back door, told me that ‘they were here’, straightened his black tie and, without thinking about it, I straightened my black tie too.
Looking back over the rooftops of where we lived before heading inside I caught a familiar smell on the cold air, something sweet. A smell that reminded of the past.
Albert’s pipe.
As quickly as it had arrived, it passed. But it made me smile.
Then I headed straight towards the worst feeling of all.
The worst feeling was knowing my Mum was leaving the house for the last time.
The worst feeling was because nobody was smiling except for an aunt who talked nervously, smoked a lot, and reminded everyone how good-looking Mum was when she was younger.
The worst feeling was because of the looks that passed between people. Or didn’t for that matter. I noticed that everybody avoided that straight look in the eye. They were afraid to show the world just how upset they were.
The worst feeling was the belief that you were weak because you wanted to cry.
The worst feeling was seeing tears in my Dad’s eyes.
The worst feeling was travelling slowly in the hearse, watching an old man stop and take off his hat, and not being able to thank him.
The worst feeling was knowing my mum was in the thick wooden coffin in the back.
The worst feeling was the echoes of shuffling feet in the church and the sad hymns.
The worst feeling was that I would never see my Mum again.
Dad had asked me if I wanted to say something about Mum at the funeral. At first I was really scared. Then I passed a letter to Mr Butler from Dad asking him if he would like to attend the funeral. Dad knew that Mr Butler had been a good friend to me during a tough time at school. So I told Mr Butler what Dad had said. Mr Butler offered to help me with a reading or short poem.
We decided on a short poem.
So, as people coughed into their gloves in a church warmed by a sun sending laser-beam light through the windows, me and my Dad walked nervously to the front of the pews. I remembered how Mr Butler had a clear, kind voice that made people listen.
So I made it my mission to try and copy him.
I reached into my trouser pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper, unfurled it and looked at all the sad faces.
“I’m really nervous,” I said, my voice shaking and echoing off the pillars and the pews, “but I…I want people to feel happy when they remember my Mum. Be happy and not be sad. So, my teacher Mr Butler helped me write this poem. I hope you like it.”
I cleared my throat and smiled awkwardly at Mr Butler who was sat near the back of the church. He nodded for me to start.
"I’m not very good at saying goodbyes
I don’t like waving from a train or
Telling lies
When I say ‘I’ll see you again’,
Maybe next month, or maybe next year,
Because I know it’ll probably be years.
So I’ll say goodnight instead,
As if she were just going to bed,
But it’s still the worst feeling of all,
Like losing an arm or being
Too small.
It’s worse than that, much, much worse
Than I ever thought.
So, for the sake of time, I’ll keep this short.
Goodnight Mum, and sleep tight,
When I think of you I feel like
A thumping heart and a million smiles.
You were the best Mum by a million miles."
For the first time in my life I got a round of applause and, despite the circumstances, I allowed myself a little smile.
Not a million. Just one.
Mum wouldn’t have liked us being too sad.
Then we all watched helplessly as Mum’s coffin slid slowly away from us, disappearing behind curtains that closed shakily, like it was the end of a play or something.
But then it was the end.
I suppose.
