Preparation

I ring several old friends to tell them of Lionel's passing. His best man, Pat, is shaken. He's nearly 90 and was one of Lionel's first friends in Invercargill. He's reflective and kind and I ask if he remembers any stories I can tell at the funeral. He does and we chat for a while. There's a close connection even after all these years.

The three of us go down to the funeral director. We choose a coffin. They're all over $1,000 and I can't help but wonder how people with not enough money get around it. It would be practical for all sorts of reasons, not least of which you only use it once, to have more sustainable and cost friendly options. Like Bruce from the Canterbury PPTA's coffins. But we're here right now and Lionel is being buried so it will contain his remains for a very long time. We have a planning meeting which is relatively quick because we find it easy to agree on the details. At the end we visit Lionel in his funeral clothes, embalmed, preserved for the near future. Time is relative. He looks much like he usually does, dressed in suit with a checked shirt, neatly presented for his last formal occasion. It would meet his approval. He's a bit hunched and his arthritic fingers are curled up and I can see how limited his dexterity was. But he never complained. His generation didn't, they just got on with it. We chat about how he looks. I suppose I'm glad I came. I'm not sure about the new Lionel but it is closure. I've made the most of time with him in his later years but 2020 reduced my opportunities- Covid and the house build.

We walk into the bright light of a clear summer day. Life does indeed go on. We've clocked a few jobs each but stop at Industrial Lane Cafe to debrief in normal surroundings. The backdrop is irrelevant, however, it's all a blur at the moment. My afternoon job, and I'm procrastinating, is to organise the eulogy. Tui wrote it from her memories and Lionel's memoir, the one he wrote at age 80. I helped him proof read it. Should've asked more questions. And I typed Tui's script and printed it. I asked her lots of questions but my memories are fading. Looking at her handwriting takes me back as she composed hundreds of letters over the years when I was at boarding school, doing an AFS year in Escondido, then travelling. No internet and expensive toll calls got me into a weekly habit of writing home. These letters are documents of my life and her life. She knew this and kept all mine. The script has the tremulous shakes of old age, it's evidence of a life time of written expression. And precious. I pick up my pen to add a post script. I chew my pen. This is difficult because Lionel was a difficult man to live with. It's taken me years and my own PTSD from the earthquakes to realise what war did to him. I'm compose  my words carefully. To those who heard Lionel's outbursts I ask forbearance. It's the best I can do and the last service I'll perform for him.