When I Am Dead And Laid In Earth
The flight manager announced at the onset of our flight ‘The cabin crew call me the Duchess.’ The Duchess was busy all night, as we had a medical emergency in economy class. I couldn’t sleep, and exhaustion gave me morbid thoughts. When I got home I gave my daughter a list of songs required for my funeral. It is short and appropriately sentimental. Number one is ‘Lowlands Away’ by Stan Kelly, a mournful sea shanty. I like these; particularly when they deal with death and cannibalism, but cannibalism is not appropriate for a funeral. My second choice is ‘It Was Sad When That Great Ship Went Down’ by William and Versey Smith. Eerie and evocative, it is about the sinking of the Titanic, but could metaphorically apply to me. My third choice is ‘Ne Me Quitte Pas’ by Jacques Brel. I hope Matt will be experiencing these kinds of feelings, particularly the line about missing the shadow of my dog. My final choice is ‘Damaged Goods’ by the Gang of Four. They might not approve of the company, but I insist. The valedictions are appropriate.
I plan to be buried, not burned. Will I have a mosaic gravestone? If so, I have seen what I want, at the Bardo Museum in Tunis. The tombs are free standing sarcophagi. Some of the mosaic figures lie there in solitary splendour, some husbands and wives lie together. I prefer the latter.
On the subject of memorials, I read the following at York St Mary’s today. We were packing up the last of the mosaic in the freezing church. The inscription was a tribute paid by a wife to her husband. I think I could say much the same about mine:
‘He was not only distinguished by a taste and genius in the fine arts, the memorial of which will be cherished by those who knew and loved him, and will long perpetuate his name to those when his friends will be no more. Could his virtues like his talents bear witness to themselves, they would leave memorials of still higher value. Few have equaled him in sweetness of manners, in glowing benevolence of heart to all his fellow beings, for in tenderness and delicacy of attachment to such as were peculiarly dear to him. His pure mind was habitually raised with devout affection to the author of his being, whom he blessed and adored in the beauties and wonders of creation, and in the benignity of the Christian dispensation. His character thus marked was invariable through life: still beamed through the languors of his last sickness, and mingled even with the sufferings of his parting breath. This imperfect tribute to his memory is offered by Harriet his wife, whose only support in the bitterness of separation arises from the gospel promises of life and immortality through Jesus Christ.’
Matt’s step-daughter agrees with the sentiments expressed at the beginning, but from the mention of manners onwards she begs to differ.
Tomb with husband and wife, Bardo Museum.
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