The Last Celebration

The mini bottles of prosecco we’d hidden inside my sister’s handbag clanked loudly as we climbed into the backseat of the funeral car. I nervously looked at the driver, worried he might berate us for being disrespectful. He might think I was mourning in the wrong way.

I’d worn my scruffy, patent red Doc Martens and vintage pillbox hat. Attached to the hat was a black veil that covered my face. When we’d arrived at my grandma’s now empty house, her best friend had been waiting outside. Your grandma would have loved to see you so dressed up, she’d leant in to tell me. Yes, she would have. I’d worn the same hat to my grandad’s funeral, with an ostentatious faux fur coat. My grandma had loved the outfit so much she’d asked me to take a selfie so she could hang the photo on the wall.

When we had entered the crematorium Julie Andrews had been singing about going to the hills when her heart was lonely. I used to go to my grandma’s house when my heart was lonely. She would gather me into a hug before I’d even got through the front door. Then we’d open some wine, get cosy on the sofa and watch Midsomer Murders. We liked the episode where the dead lady fell out of the wardrobe best.

I’d sent a link to my friends, so they could livestream the funeral. A funeral being live-streamed. It felt so rock and roll. As I got up to the lectern to read my speech I thought of how many people had wanted a link to watch. Everyone who met her, loved her.

My voice shook as I spoke into the microphone. I made a joke about my first draft being ten pages long, but I’d managed to edit it down. It felt appropriate to be laughing at my grandma’s funeral. She had laughed all the time. I talked about the vast impact she’d had on our lives, how she had taught me to use a drill, how to always see the good in everyone, how to love so fiercely. I talked about it being a shame we couldn’t sing because of COVID-19. It made me sad because my grandma had never stopped singing. She loved to sing. I asked my friends and family to sing on the way home, or when they were making their dinner or were listening to the radio. Singing is an act of joy, I said, and I can think of no better way to honour my grandma.

As we left the crematorium the von Trapp children sang their goodbyes. I hadn’t realised when I picked the music that I would never be able to watch mine and my grandma’s favourite musical ever again, without it reducing me to a blubbering mess.

My sister and I were the first to reach the flowers that had been laid out next to a sign that bore my grandma’s name. We cracked open the prosecco. My bottle fizzed over slightly. I pulled back my veil and I licked the side of the bottle. Waste not, want not, my grandma used to tell me. We held our bottles up and toasted to Grandma Cyncy. A celebration of her life. So long, farewell.

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