Afterward on the Funeral for Vernetta Reed

Half way through watching Vernetta Reed’s funeral there was a call from Wyona, asking where the interment would be in the Queen’s Park Cemetery after the funeral.

She wanted to drive over there and be present.

I knew why she would call and interrupt our viewing. I was having that same impulse -- to join Vernetta for that last ride to the cemetery.

Moiya and I watched the minutes at the graveside, through the gift of Wyona’s ipad.

I am glad I didn’t miss those moments.

The dark silhouettes of the tall trees, the whiteness of the snow around the gravesite, the groups of families as they took their final leave of Vernetta, the somewhat heavy weight of the funeral, though I don’t know why I typed that.  There couldn’t have been a more respectful funeral, a monument of love and devotion from her children with their thoughts and words and music.  Maybe it is the weight of love I had for her in my heart that gave me that heavy feeling.

Here are the pictures Wyona took.

About 10 people were around the gravesite when the prayer was said.

Everyone else stayed in their cars alongside the road. Then one my one, people in the car-bubbles came out to visit the site as others would leave, all of them seemingly aware of our collective need to care for each other by observing strict COVID protocols.

Having paid for, and having supervised many music lessons myself, I was thrown back to the days of wanting my children to have, in their bones, the best of what classical music could offer to them.

I remember listening to their scales, to their attempts to learn a piece of music, one phrase at a time. I was aware of those former disappointments when a sharp or flat was missed, or wrong fingering got in the way of a smooth transition from one part of the music to another part.

When David Reed sat down to play his piece from memory, I knew that the notes were locked into the bones and sinews of his body.

Touching. So touching.

I wonder if the tears would have streamed as fast down Vernetta’s cheeks as they did mine, if she had been there to listen. It wasn’t the music I was listening to, but the investment of a mother’s love and energy. As well, I was hearing the childhood difficulty of continuing music lessons – practise after practise with no relief, it would have seemed to some of my children.

I will ask David, Darryl, Ken, Joanne and Susie if they have word copies of their talks.

If so, I will publish them here.

If not, then I will try to access the memory of the words until they fade ... as all memories do.

Arta