Saturday morning saw me running around town in the pouring rain and a massive tantrum, trying in vain to find something to wear to the wedding. I'd bought a dress the week before only to try it on on Friday and discover that I'd need to magically grow breasts overnight to fit it - I ended up wearing it anyway with a vest, a high-waisted belt, a lot of safety pins, tall stiletto heels and my cherry earrings to distract from my dog's dinner of an outfit. I'm told it worked.
I was anxious about the day already. The friend who was to marry is the same friend who lost his brother a couple of months back, and the last time I had seen his family was the weekend that they brought Conor home to bury him. That Sunday afternoon I spent with them broke my heart, I have never seen such appalling, consuming grief. I spent most of the afternoon on their couch with my sister and their four grandkids, delighted with their easy affection, wide-eyed honesty and sticky fingered dexterity on the Nintendo DS. I was worried about seeing the family again, selfishly uncomfortable with their grief and feeling bizarrely guilty about my own. I had mourned Conor in my own small way here and I had lost my Crash Grandadicoot that same week - weddings make me cry anyway so how the fuck was I going to manage this one?
I managed it just dandy, taking my cue from everyone around me. The day went without a hitch (save for the obvious pun) and it was as a wedding should be - happy, celebratory, lán beocht agus croí. The bride looked beautiful and her husband (eek! he's married now!) spent the day looking like he couldn't believe his luck. His brother Conor was remembered as he will always be remembered in everything his family do and I learned that grief (whether your own or someone else's) is not something to be uncomfortable with or feel embarrassed about. That his family can still take the time to make me and everyone else who was there on Saturday feel special amazes me in a quiet, ordinary way. They're good people for me to take my cues from.
I was anxious about the day already. The friend who was to marry is the same friend who lost his brother a couple of months back, and the last time I had seen his family was the weekend that they brought Conor home to bury him. That Sunday afternoon I spent with them broke my heart, I have never seen such appalling, consuming grief. I spent most of the afternoon on their couch with my sister and their four grandkids, delighted with their easy affection, wide-eyed honesty and sticky fingered dexterity on the Nintendo DS. I was worried about seeing the family again, selfishly uncomfortable with their grief and feeling bizarrely guilty about my own. I had mourned Conor in my own small way here and I had lost my Crash Grandadicoot that same week - weddings make me cry anyway so how the fuck was I going to manage this one?
I managed it just dandy, taking my cue from everyone around me. The day went without a hitch (save for the obvious pun) and it was as a wedding should be - happy, celebratory, lán beocht agus croí. The bride looked beautiful and her husband (eek! he's married now!) spent the day looking like he couldn't believe his luck. His brother Conor was remembered as he will always be remembered in everything his family do and I learned that grief (whether your own or someone else's) is not something to be uncomfortable with or feel embarrassed about. That his family can still take the time to make me and everyone else who was there on Saturday feel special amazes me in a quiet, ordinary way. They're good people for me to take my cues from.
