Consoling a mourner... :

Personal remembrances that speak volumes

by Lionel Wijesiri

It was a hot evening, in early June 2010, when the floral arrangements in the funeral parlour overwhelmed one, with their perfume. I sat next to my silent, sorrowing friend, wondering what to say to a mother whose only child was the victim of an automobile crash. The stillness was broken when a man in his early 70s caressed Anusha's head and gently placed a damp package of neatly rolled-up white paper on her lap. Carefully tucked inside, were limp clumps of a dozen flower seedlings. Later on, I came to know, he was a distant relative whose hobby was growing flowers.

"These little things need the feel of earth around them," the old man said. "They'll need you to care for them."

When I met Anusha recently, she recalled that isolate incident. Somehow, planting those seedlings and coaxing them into bloom helped restore her own broken spirit. Anusha sometimes wonders whether it was sheer coincidence, that minutes after she began digging the soil to plant, her neighbour saw her and dropped-by to give a helping hand, soon to be joined by another neighbour. Together they helped Anusha to plant the seedlings. The little gift of seedlings brought her a special quality of comfort and healing.

Most of us fall short of the mark when we offer our condolences. Embarrassed and uncomfortable in the face of death, we use some conventional, impersonal means to express our sorrow. The distinctive feature of the consolation received by Anusha was that it was precisely right for her. He was saying in effect, "I have given special thought to you, Anusha, because you matter very much to me, also."

Little care

With a little care, we too can find a personal remembrance that speaks directly to the griever. Putting deep feelings into words is never easy, of course, but I doubt if it's as hard as many people would like to think.

One of the loveliest condolence notes I ever read, contained just three sentences. "Dear Selvi," it began, "Your husband's place in heaven is certain. Jerry and I would like to offer the most sacred prayer we know - the Mass. Our hearts are with you. Sandra." In these few words a young Catholic housewife comforted her newly widowed Hindu neighbour. She didn't concern herself with the differences in the two religions, but simply put down on paper the loving thoughts that moved her. She knew that a hand-written brief note can mean much more than a sympathy card, easily bought.

A young woman I know carries in her wallet a letter written to her many years ago, when her 22- year-old sister died while studying in India. "Strangely, he knew Chandi for only three months or so, when she was his classmate, before she suddenly became sick. But, I treasure his words," she said.

The Professor's note said, "Chandrika often spoke about you. I hope you will soon shed the terrible sadness of your recent days, so that Chandrika can be for you once again, what she will always be for me - sunshine and spring without end."

There were other moving letters about Chandrika. A group of her young friends wrote, every New Year they would gift some books, clothes and shoes for an underprivileged child in her memory. "I think of Chandi often, but I am especially reminded of her when New Year begins," her sister told me, "it's because she had once lived, however brief, that some little boy or girl has a happier year. It means, my sister's life, really mattered."

Some people hesitate to write a note because they only knew the deceased in school or in the Army or on his first job. "Surely, the family isn't interested in hearing from a ghost of half a century past," they reason. However, the very unexpectedness gives added meaning.

I know a family that received a letter from a man who had last seen their father in eighth Grade in school; they were thrilled to hear from him, particularly since the man recalled the deceased's nickname in school, Siri-sangabo. Learning that their father's passion for giving and fair play had distinguished him even in his boyhood days, added to their treasured memories.

The man, incidentally, had changed his school after the eighth Grade. "I can't put things down in a fanciful manner," his letter began, "but I just want to say, your father was my best friend and every kid in school looked up to him." The family cherishes that letter above all others.

Anyone who has mourned the loss of a loved one, can vouch for the lasting impact of thoughtful gestures in the lonely weeks and months that follow the initial flurry of attentive callers.

Memories

Well-spaced telephone calls, an invitation for a chat, an occasional visit, a bunch of flowers, can all be most helpful. Janaki, a colleague, once told me, the person who helped her most after her husband's death was a friend who dragged her out of home, whenever she went out shopping."Those trips forced me to return to the world around me. I'm grateful that Shyma persisted against my stubborn protests."

No one wants to impose on another's need for privacy and solitude, but, good friends can usually distinguish between a genuine need and a withdrawal and brooding brought on by depression.

Underlying each of these indelible memories, Anusha's seedlings, the note about Siri-sangabo, and the trips Shyma shared with Janaki, I realize, there is a common thread running through.

In each instance, the consolation came from something immensely personal, with a gift of individual thoughtfulness.