Photo by Tomasz Pro, Pixabay
When one of our cats dies, I light a tealight and leave it burning in a lantern over the cat’s grave. Tonight there’s a candle burning on each grave in the garden, to acknowledge that every cat out there added his or her own flavour to the house. Looking out of the window I can see them all, and think of them.
Today the official death toll from Covid-19 in the UK passed 100,000, and many of those who died got a funeral to break the heart of every bereaved relative, with very few allowed to attend. A teenage boy died alone, as his family was not allowed to visit him (as for too many people). Patients were ferried miles away to hospitals with a few beds to spare, London borrowed ambulances from surrounding areas (themselves under enormous pressure) and oxygen supplies ran so low that Southend Hospital was reported to be rationing oxygen treatment to desperately ill patients. I’m upset at the loss of a cat, and I apologise to anyone who feels this is out of proportion.
It’s important to say goodbye. Funerals are for the living, an important ritual of letting go and passing memories and comfort among the survivors that is a reassurance that the deceased will not be forgotten. My father’s funeral two years ago was low key but important to all of his family and friends. It hurts that too many people have a family member erased from their life and the funeral is held with the attendance rationed. It damages the lives of those who survive.
I hear tonight that the civilian death toll in World War Two was 70,000 in the UK. I have heard suggestions that we should have a memorial to those who have died, like a war memorial. It’s an idea worth pursuing. It’s the least we can do for those who died in the sole care of strangers.
Julia Chalkley 