At the Cemetery

“Who of us will be the last one to close the line,” an old friend remarked as we walked over the cemetery to give our last salute to our friend Magda. In her white flower covered coffin she was about to be laid to rest in the family grave. Joining her late husband, a major friend of ours lost almost thirty years ago. So here we were gathering again, that jolly old student club, some of them even school comrades. A pale sun shining through the thin clouds, as a long funeral procession shuffled over the gravel path towards the open grave.

The funeral speeches had been clear, calm and wholehearted. They all witnessed of true love without formalities or finery. Controversies and difficulties as part of life were called by name. The last years had been very burdening as she was suffering from progressive dementia. Her sudden death bringing relief by ending her way of suffering. Despite all this she herself had kept a childlike positive mood, barely without complaining. Now she appeared as surrounded by good positive hearted widower, family members and friends. Just as she deserved.

Afterwards in the damp garden restaurant where she loved dining with friends lots of friends and colleagues gathered. We met a few friends but it was too crowded and noisy in the lounge for a serious conversation. Willemien and I happily were offered a lift to the station. I felt weary seeing all these old faces, running out of time. The streetcar on our way home was crowded too. Walking the last yard nearly home I felt better, deeply inhaling the fresh air. As I had done on the cemetery lane, looking to the transparent silhouettes of the neatly shaven trees. Histories opening and closing itself again, I thought.