Stick with me here because I know it’s going to initially sound like a weird assertion to make, but, trust me, it does make sense: I was reminded recently that funerals are some of my most treasured occasions.
Over the summer my family said goodbye to my cousin Ryan, a man who was taken away from his family and friends quite suddenly, without warning. All these months later the reverberations are still being felt, and the loss still feels so raw to so many.
My family had to say goodbye to him in the shadow of Covid rules, so the send-off wasn’t quite the one his family would have wanted – but it was still a beautiful reflection of him. We were able to share stories, share memories, laugh and cry – all in his name. So, too, was the memorial football game that was held at Holmesdale Football Club.
And as I stood chatting away at his wake, and at the football, I was reminded why funerals can be some of my favourite and most meaningful moments in life. When else do all your favourite people, all the people you’ve ever had any impact on, everyone who’s ever loved you – come together to celebrate you? With you, the special guest, being felt in every corner of the room and yet nowhere to be found.
People always find it strange when I say that my mum’s funeral was one of my favourite days. That was the first time I realised what a powerful tool a funeral can be on the journey to reconciling with grief. I gave the eulogy that day. I remember walking up to the pulpit, taking a breath, looking up and suddenly realising just how packed that church was. It was heaving. So much so it was spilling out onto the street. The love in the room for my mum was palpable, and my heart was overflowing with pride.
And the party afterwards? A proper Caribbean affair, with caterers, a DJ, dancing, free bar, dominoes – and laughter permeating through the venue. It was a celebration. It’s no exaggeration to say that we Jamaicans party hard at a funeral. And of course, there was an after-after-party… with all the leftover booze, food, and guests transported to our family home to continue until the wee hours.
The morning after I remember thinking: “Mum would’ve loved that.” And almost exactly 20 years later I woke up the morning after the recent funeral of a former boss with that same thought, that he would have loved that. And the hangover that was my unwelcome plus-one for most of that day? He would have absolutely loved that too.
It’s the beauty of the light and dark of saying goodbye, I guess. Dark clouds have a propensity to envelop you in the days after you lose someone, but at a funeral they can sometimes be batted away by the light – the overwhelming waves of love each guest brings.
But the weirdness of grief is that you then want to share that feeling, those snatched conversations, the brilliant memories from that day – but with the one person you can’t do that with anymore. And it sucks. It just, well, sucks.
But 20 years on, my mum’s funeral is still one of my favourite days. Yes, I crumbled and cried into my dad’s chest after the church service – but aside from the sick-to-the-pit-of-my-stomach feeling of loss, that day is still always guaranteed to make me smile. From my uncles playing dominoes with an ever-present tumbler of Appleton Rum on the table, to my mum’s friends drinking a tad too much wine while sharing stories, when my mind drifts back to that day – as it often does – it does help with the ever-constant recovery from grief. It reminds you that although the person may be gone, the love will never leave.
Charlene White is a presenter on ‘ITV News’ and ‘Loose Women’
