We had been apart three years, almost to the day, when my husband died, suddenly and unexpectedly, in Killarney. I received the news late one night when, on the phone to my daughter, my mobile rang in the other room. I went to pick it up. Only one person ever rang me that late and yes, it was him. "Stay on the phone," I said to my daughter, "I'll just see what he wants." But it wasn't him because he had gone for ever. Someone checked his phone and thought I should know.
He had been in Killarney only seven months but he had settled into the community and found friends who now wanted to do the best by him. With their help I arranged for his body to be taken to a funeral home and then flew out there myself. Tim met me off the evening plane and asked what I wanted to do first. "I want to see Wolf," was my answer.
"Yes," he said, "but first there's a meal ready for you with our Ministers. They would be so disappointed if you didn't come. Then I'll take you." It never occurred to me, probably because my brain had ceased to function, that the funeral home was closed and everyone gone home for the day. I did not know that while I ate, Tim was phoning ahead to ask the proprietors to come and open up. We arrived to find the place blazing with light and the lovely Michael and Mary waiting with warm smiles to welcome us in.
"Will it be all right if I play my drums?" I asked. I wanted to send him out in a proper pagan manner.
"Sure," Mary said with a beaming smile, "They're all dead here, they won't mind!"
I had never seen a dead person and my mother had told me always to say no if I got the chance. She had been upset at the sight of her own dead mother and never got over it. So it was with trepidation that I followed Tim through the heavy oak door. Wolfram was lying in an open coffin in the midst of a Victorian parlour complete with potted plants and cast iron fireplace. I almost expected a Palm Court Orchestra to tune up. I held my breath. There was nothing about him that was not Wolf. He looked like any minute he might sit up with cheeky grin and sparkling eyes and say, "That fooled you!"
Whenever, in the succeeding nine years, I've thought back to that funeral in Killarney, it seems to me that the time I had with him stretched over a long period, that every morning I ran down to that funeral home like a young girl running to her lover, to be with him. Yet I knew, somehow, that it could not have been longer than two days. It was not until last year that, while out walking, I allowed myself to seriously examine the facts and was astounded to find that from landing in Killarney to the funeral in the Methodist Church was exactly 24 hours. On the rest of the walk I created this poem in my head, committing it to paper when I got home, then revising and refining it over the next few days.
He had been in Killarney only seven months but he had settled into the community and found friends who now wanted to do the best by him. With their help I arranged for his body to be taken to a funeral home and then flew out there myself. Tim met me off the evening plane and asked what I wanted to do first. "I want to see Wolf," was my answer.
"Yes," he said, "but first there's a meal ready for you with our Ministers. They would be so disappointed if you didn't come. Then I'll take you." It never occurred to me, probably because my brain had ceased to function, that the funeral home was closed and everyone gone home for the day. I did not know that while I ate, Tim was phoning ahead to ask the proprietors to come and open up. We arrived to find the place blazing with light and the lovely Michael and Mary waiting with warm smiles to welcome us in.
"Will it be all right if I play my drums?" I asked. I wanted to send him out in a proper pagan manner.
"Sure," Mary said with a beaming smile, "They're all dead here, they won't mind!"
I had never seen a dead person and my mother had told me always to say no if I got the chance. She had been upset at the sight of her own dead mother and never got over it. So it was with trepidation that I followed Tim through the heavy oak door. Wolfram was lying in an open coffin in the midst of a Victorian parlour complete with potted plants and cast iron fireplace. I almost expected a Palm Court Orchestra to tune up. I held my breath. There was nothing about him that was not Wolf. He looked like any minute he might sit up with cheeky grin and sparkling eyes and say, "That fooled you!"
Whenever, in the succeeding nine years, I've thought back to that funeral in Killarney, it seems to me that the time I had with him stretched over a long period, that every morning I ran down to that funeral home like a young girl running to her lover, to be with him. Yet I knew, somehow, that it could not have been longer than two days. It was not until last year that, while out walking, I allowed myself to seriously examine the facts and was astounded to find that from landing in Killarney to the funeral in the Methodist Church was exactly 24 hours. On the rest of the walk I created this poem in my head, committing it to paper when I got home, then revising and refining it over the next few days.
A Passing in Killarney
It seemed like days, if not weeks, till they came for him,
While I sat at his side and I talked to him,
While I played my drum and I sang for him,
And I placed the green boughs that I brought for him.
It seemed like days, if not weeks, till they came for him,
Each day, like a bride, that I ran to him,
To sit by his side and honour him,
With the candles and incense I brought for him.
Yet it was twenty-four hours that I had with him,
From my plane touching down till they came for him.
Over the green bower that my hands had made for him,
They nailed down the lid that they brought for him.
I had twenty-four hours till they came for him,
And that was the last time I looked on him.
As Husband and Friend I remember him,
As Half of my Soul I remember him.
Each day of my life I remember him.
It seemed like days, if not weeks, till they came for him,
While I sat at his side and I talked to him,
While I played my drum and I sang for him,
And I placed the green boughs that I brought for him.
It seemed like days, if not weeks, till they came for him,
Each day, like a bride, that I ran to him,
To sit by his side and honour him,
With the candles and incense I brought for him.
Yet it was twenty-four hours that I had with him,
From my plane touching down till they came for him.
Over the green bower that my hands had made for him,
They nailed down the lid that they brought for him.
I had twenty-four hours till they came for him,
And that was the last time I looked on him.
As Husband and Friend I remember him,
As Half of my Soul I remember him.
Each day of my life I remember him.
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