Tears in Snow

The roses I left for Dad - they were his favourite flower.

Floral wreaths

Some people left tributes on a bench

These had a Christmassy theme with their red and green

One of my favourite films is Ridley Scott's science fiction classic, Blade Runner. The soundtrack is very futuristic - haunting and melancholy.

My favourite track is Tears in Rain which is played when the replicant, Roy, dies in pouring rain and there is a slow motion shot of a dove taking flight.

This song came into my mind when I was thinking about my annual visit to the crematorium on 6 January to commemorate the 22nd anniversary of my Dad's death. Every year I wonder at how so much time can have passed and yet the pain still be so raw.

There was still snow on the ground when I arrived at the crematorium and it made it look very beautiful.

However, I always have a sense of forboding when I drive throught the gates, mainly because I hate bumping into people who are attending funerals. It makes me feel awkward.

Of course, they've every right to be there - that's what crematoriums are for after all.

And I have a right to be there too, yet somehow I always feel as if I'm intruding.

But that's why there's the chapel and the Book of Remembrance - for those of us who are still grieving and need some ritual to give their grieving an outward expression.

My heart therefore dropped when I saw a large group of people gathered in the creamatorium car park, with more cars arriving by the minute. So many came that when I left, there were people standing in front of the car and I felt bad when I had to drive through them to leave.

I heard the faint sound of bagpipes coming from the main building and took a strange sense of comfort in thinking that the funeral was for someone Scottish. It seemed a tenous connection, but a connection nonetheless.

After I'd looked in the Book of Remembrance I wandered through the garden and looked at all the flowers and tributes. It was very moving to read about the people who had died and see how much they were still loved and missed.

Dad doesn't have a rose bush any more. They only keep them for ten years and I didn't get a new one because I don't think a new rose bush will make any difference to how much I miss him. I also used to find it quite dispiriting to see the rosebush in January when it was nothing more than a series of forlorn, flowerless stalks.

I did shed a few tears. Not many, but they were my tears in snow.

Because someone I loved so much had died.

And I still missed him everyday.

Goodbye Beatrice

The graveyard where Beatrice is buried.

The stately home where Beatrice worked as a cook.

St Peter's Church.

On 23 December I attended the funeral of my step grandmother, Beatrice. Her full name was Beatrice Ada, an old-fashioned name for an old-fashioned lady who lived for 95 years, the 'baby' sister of her elder sister Winnie who is still going strong at the age of 104.

Funerals are always sad occasions, but if a funeral can also be beautiful then Beatrice's was. I call her Beatrice as it's her name and a really lovely one, but throughout her life, I knew her as 'Grandma' and indeed most people who knew her also knew her as 'Grandma'. It seemed to suit her particular qualities - a kind person who didn't stand for any nonsense and could be quite stubborn, even cantankerous, in her ways, but always cared about people, especially her family.

At the funeral I found out things I hadn't known and wish I had. Like the fact that she started her life in service. I'd love to have talked to her what it was like to be 'below stairs' and all the gossip that must have gone on about what the servants really thought of their masters.

She ran a pub and I'm sure she could have told me tales of the customers who frequented it and the antics they must have got up to.

She was also a cook in a stately home linked to the Cardigan family (Charge of the Light Brigade and all that) and it was therefore appropriate that a member of the family came to pay his respects even though he was wheelchair bound. He wanted to say a personal goodbye to the woman who had provided faithful service to his family for so many years.

She fell in love with and had many years of happy marriage with 'her Harold'. The description of their romance was both touching and sad as he died long before his time, leaving her a widow for more than 30 years. She also had the sorrow of losing one of her two beloved sons, something a mother should never have to bear. So she knew great sorrow as well as great happiness.

The overwhelming impression I came away with from the funeral was one of a woman who lived a rich and full life, living independently until the very end, and constantly cared for by members of her family.

She died peacefully in her sleep and was reunited with 'her Harold' in a plot next to his - together again at the end.

The setting also played its part - a picturesque church, opened specially for the occasion and a beautiful snowy day which made the proceedings atmospheric and ethereal.

It was a fitting tribute to Beatrice Ada. No frills, no fuss, just everything done as it should be.

I feel certain she would have approved.