Wrong Turning

Now with both sons B and M we have to deal with signatures of important stuff. The hospital immediately demands paperwork. We are in France; I speak a very little French and my sons nothing. But they are kind here, and an interpreter is summoned to help and also to guide one of us round the maze of corridors and indeed the several buildings in this large hospital organisation.

Son B as the eldest, volunteers. The interpreter turns out to be an exceedingly pretty young woman, who leads him off while Son M and I sit down - the feeling now a crazy mix of rawness and relief, as if a vast and unbearable noise has been stopped.

It takes quite a while before Son B reappears. It seems the exceedingly pretty young woman was not quite so au fait with the geography of the place as she should have been. She led him across lawns and gardens to a small building, looking for the mortuary, where papers were to be signed. They wandered inside, to be faced with, says Son B, "people in white uniforms and hats, with steam billowing about and large pots and I thought, oh no, my worst nightmare - is this a mortuary?" But it was not, it was the kitchen - wrong turning.

Right there we had a laugh. We had to.

Can you believe it.

With great efficiency we are assured that we shall have all that is necessary within a couple of days. They know how much we want to get home to South Africa. Husband F is to be cremated and his ashes given to us forthwith. I am touched by their consideration. We are told about where to go and what to do tomorrow.

The crematorium is surrounded by grape vines. The sun is shining on open country but one can hear a nearby motor way. I am unspeakably still. We sit, just the three of us, in the chapel; music is playing, flutes, I think. Suddenly it turns into a very lovely melody, falls like balm onto me.

We look forward to going home; we are to receive the ashes in the afternoon tomorrow before our plane to Paris. Son M who lives in San Francisco is to come home with me, Son B has business committments. At the funeral parlour, true to their word, the French have the urn contained in a neat carry bag with a zip, ready for us. We hug the urn.