Bryony Good / Your Family / Hebdon Bridge
As my father stares gormlessly at the cars turning out of the small street surrounding the church trying to work out which car to follow to the cemetery I get my phone out and switch it on in anticipation of the need for Google maps. The selfish ignorance of this man, my guardian, did it not cross his mind that he might need to know the way? On the day of the funeral did he not think maybe, just maybe, my daughter who does not drive may want to be driven to the cemetery after the service? How much would it have taken him to phone someone and say ‘hey, could you maybe tell me how I drive from the church to the cemetery so my daughter can see her mother buried in the ground?’
I check the name of the place on the hymn sheet and type it into my phone passing on the instructions monosyllabically. I don’t want an inch of kindness escaping between my words if I can help it. This passive aggressive reaction to my father’s lack of capability as a parent is my one and only coping mechanism. The effect of which is a tendency to get drunk and angry.
I could’ve prevented all of this by predicting the never faulted incompetence of my father and checking the route myself but I prefer to watch the chaos ensue. Gives me something to complain about.
We arrive to the cemetery late. It’s grey and the crowd surrounds the hole in the ground where the coffin has already been laid. My family is crowed round hugging and explaining at what a nice view my mother has from her pit in the ground. As usual my father and I stand on the outskirts of the family looking awkwardly in.