Culture

In a Word . . .

. . . dead. Patsy McGarry

Patsy McGarry's face
Patsy McGarry
Sat Sep 26 2020 - 00:30

And now for something more cheerful: death! Or, rather, its more immediate aftermath – the great question of how to deal with “this mortal coil”, the body, which must be left behind.

Or be interred with its bones, as per non-believers for whom there is no “undiscover’d country from whose bourn/ No traveller returns.”

Dust to dust. It’s a fate too that awaits all those feckless, reckless young people at their house parties these days. For “golden lads and girls all must/As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.”

Indeed, “but to die, and go we know not where;/To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;/This sensible warm motion to become/A kneaded clod”?

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Or be cremated, stored in a jar on a mantelpiece, or strewn to the four winds when, with a “pshaw” (my favourite Shakespearean word!) it is as though we never were. And what about? For what does it matter that we may be so forgotten it becomes as if we were never here?

Such deathly thoughts are inspired by a wonderful newspaper advert I saw just recently – possibly inspired by these death-rich pandemic days – for people thinking of cremation.

“Don’t be left on the shelf!” it advised, “come bury your ash with us”. Well, it didn’t quite use those latter six words exactly. Rather, its cemetery offered “beautifully located ash burial and interment options in a truly tranquil landscaped setting”. Just the place to rest your ash!

But, hurry. No, I don’t mean you are in any imminent danger of taking your leave. It’s just that there are a limited number (it doesn’t say of what) available to book in advance. Or “pre purchase”, as the advert says.

You’d hardly be booking after the event!

I have never understood this business of beautifully located cemeteries/graveyards. It hardly matters to the residents, whether of ash or damp clay.

Which reminds me of my father and the day our wandering cattle ended up in the local graveyard. He and one of my brothers were clearing them out when an irate woman raged at them both about the shocking sacrilege of animals among the gravestones.

“The only one complaining is you,” commented our father, wherever he is. Both he and my brother now reside in that same graveyard among the uncomplaining ones.

Dead, from Middle English ded, "having ceased to live".

[ inaword@irishtimes.com ]