Circus

It seems that coronavirus was actually more serious than I realised, but I'm still not allowing myself to be swept up in the gnashing and wailing because it's not going to make a difference. The cemetery people called our hostess and suggested she might like to postpone until after the apocalypse has passed. She told them that she was going ahead as planned, despite everyone who would have attended having let us know they'll be staying home. The deceased was cremated months ago, and this would have made more sense earlier in the year, but our hostess was determined to mount a spectacle for the benefit of one particular special guest; and now even she can't make it. We're therefore going to livestream the proceedings to her in Arizona.

We are stood in the cemetery in a small town some sixty miles south of San Antonio. The sky is grey and it's pouring with rain. There are five of us in attendance, just direct relatives and myself stood on the family plot wherein the mortal remains of my wife's ancestors are interred, going back more than a century. With us are three cemetery guys, two with shovels, stood around waiting for it to be over. A bright green strip of plastic grass is laid out to one side of the plot with five folding chairs. Our hostess sets her soundbar and smartphone upon one of the chairs as some Godawful Christian country number swells and gushes to fill the air to provide the emotion which it apparently believes we ourselves are incapable of producing. Our hostess has once again taken control of the situation, as she always does, and she has made it about her. This is her presentation to us, grimly delivered despite previous complaints about having to do everything herself while making sure that this is the only possible option and that our collective role is therefore reduced to that of audience. Maybe later we'll compare notes, compliment our hostess on how well she arranged everything on our behalf, knowing we would only have made a mess of it.

Aren't we fortunate in having her to do this sort of thing for us?

Junior is handed a smartphone and my wife sets up the livestream so that a woman in Arizona can watch us stood around a hole in the ground in the pissing rain. Our hostess waves her hands in dismissive gestures, testily confirming that no, she doesn't know how to set up a livestream. Does she really have to do everything?

She bids us sit, like an older sister playing with her siblings. She gets to be Dorothy and we have to do what she says. She leads us in prayer like a priest. We dutifully close our eyes and mumble through, mainly so as to get to the other side, to the point at which it's over.

Now we come to the remembrances, as we knew we would. She told us of her plans, her schedule, several weeks before. She told us how it was going to happen. She begins, delivering a lengthy monologue detailing what she remembers about the deceased, treasured memories, precious moments, and the fact that the dead woman had little time for the mawkish sentiment one associates with Hallmark greetings cards. This last detail is related without the slightest trace of irony. The monologue is mostly about our hostess.

'That's where my love of bling came from,' she explains happily, in conclusion to some observation or other. 'For me, the bling's the thing.' She pulls that face. Yes, she realises she's just a little bit kooky, but you know how it is, right?

Others share a few memories. After all, we are actually supposed to be here because someone has died. That was the original point. I decline because I don't know why anyone would think I might have anything useful to add. Our hostess remembers something else she wanted to share.

Roll Out the Barrel is played on the soundbar - the only song the deceased actually wanted played at her funeral. Somehow we've been spared further Christian country - probably due to the rain rather than any sudden realisation on the part of our Mistress of Ceremonies

The container with the ashes is placed in the hole. We each take a handful of rose petals from a heart-shaped basket and scatter them within. This detail was similarly announced a few weeks back, or maybe pitched might be a better term given our hostess's background in commerce and corporate presentation. I additionally take a handful of sandy dirt and drop it into the hole because it seems right to do something traditional, something which hasn't been choreographed.

My wife's grandmother has returned to the earth and the hole is filled. We get back in the car and drive home in the pouring rain, happy at least for the circus to be over.