Goodbye Mercedes Man

Day has now broken, and the sun is starting to make its slow ascent in yet another blue sky. On this fresh new day, the beaches on our Spanish Island will soon be overflowing with visitors from the farthest corners of Europe, gloriously basking in the incongruous summer heat of this Autumn day. It’s a good day to bid Papa farewell. As we make the short journey on foot back to the apartment, Sis and I agree that The Wake is indeed a beautiful way of accompanying the deceased on his last earthly journey. With tears and heartfelt emotion the entire community turns out to say goodbye (see posts Gathering And Remembering and The Notebook), and once this has been done, the free Therapy Session begins. As the key turns in the front door, our hearts feel that bit lighter, for as we sat around Papa's coffin we were also recipients of some of that wonderful Wake Therapy (see post The Professionals).

From our seats at the front of the church Mama, Sis, Zara and I watch, as Papa’s coffin is lifted from its resting place near to the altar and carried out to the hearse car waiting outside. The Wake is now long over, the time for the funeral service has come and gone, and a fresh set of tears have been shed. It was a beautiful ceremony, a dignified end to Papa's last moments on Earth, and as at Finnish Grandma Elisabet's funeral many years earlier (see post Wakes And Weddings), I am not clad in black and neither is Mama, Sis or Zara. No spoken words have been exchanged, yet we have all understood that our grief is carried internally and that the colour of our clothing has no bearing on this. In fact, the vast majority of the mourners are dressed similarly to us with tidy everyday clothes, and it feels comforting to see that in the midst of everyday village life, everybody has come together to say their last goodbye to Papa. One of the pall bearers is Cousin Alberto, the other three men from the village honoured with the task. Sis dabs her moist eyes with a handkerchief and tells me that her husband would have wanted to carry Papa's coffin and I say that Hugo, Papa's only grandson, would have also wanted to join him. Neither of them are here on this day, but I close my eyes and before me the coffin of our Spanish Andalusian Papa is carried out from the church and into the nearby hearse by his beloved Finnish Grandson and English Son-in-law to begin the journey to the last resting place in a Canarian cemetery high in the mountains overlooking our Island. A fitting end for this restless explorer; were it not for his passion for adventure, none of us would be here today. 

This was the Papa that, on a Sunday like any other, took a three-year-old to an empty hole in the ground that would one day become a swimming pool in a yet-to-be-born tourist resort (see post Share The Moon), the Papa that looked after us all when we were newly arrived in England, the Papa with whom a six-year-old learned her first words in English and all about the mysteries of the English including their mystical Tea Breaks (see post Watching The English Part I And II), the Papa who taught a seven-year-old never to think herself self lesser than any one else, and to be proud of her Spanish blood (see post B Is For Bullied). And finally, the Papa with the soulful Andalusian voice and flamenco music that flowed in his veins, the legacy of a childhood home in that faraway place called 'The Other Planet'. Goodbye Papa, until we meet again.

The hearse is an elegant silver Mercedes car with large glass windows on all three sides, and inside rests Papa's coffin covered with four beautiful wreaths, each one conveying its own tender goodbye from the Garrido-Sanz family, scattered across the farthest reaches of Europe. From our Island off the Western coast of Africa, there is Mama. From mainland Spain and Andalusia, there is Papa's own Brother, Eduardo. From England there is Sis, daughters Zara and Alicia, and Husband Harry. And finally, up and above from the distant Arctic Circle and Finland, there is Hugo, Sofia and myself. As the hearse gently pulls away, Mama, Sis, Zara and I slowly follow behind on foot, wiping away the tears and squinting in the bright sunshine whilst our guests, accompanying us in our sorrow, follow behind at a respectable distance. Once the hearse reaches the perimeter of the village, it stops for a moment, and we climb into the first leading car to follow the cortege up into the mountains for the final internment and burial.  Once we pull way, everyone follows behind in their own vehicles. The usually boisterous Spaniards are now uncommonly quiet and our valley of tears has reached overflow. For the moment, we have nothing more within us.

Our final Goodbye to Papa has been said, we have all returned from the cemetery and are now once more at Mama's apartment in the village. It's already late afternoon and finally we will get the first opportunity for some unbroken sleep since Papa passed away just twenty-four hours earlier. Mama, Sis, Zara and I are all exhausted, we tumble in to bed and within minutes everybody is in a deep sleep. Except for me. From my bedside I drowsily send Hugo in Finland some Whatsapp photographs of Grandpa's last journey in the funeral car up to the cemetery. Back comes an instant message reply which rudely awakes me from my near imminent slumber. 'Wow! A flashy silver Mercedes! What a way to go, Granddad would have been well happy. The only thing missing was the flamenco singer!'  And with nostalgia I realise that, yes, Hugo is absolutely right, the Mercedes Man indeed went out in style in the car of his dreams, only the flamenco singer was missing. And I close my eyes, fall into a deep sleep and remember a far-away visit as a child with Mama and Papa to Flamenco And The Other Planet. 

To be continued...

Next post 12th February: The Other Planet


Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some small additions from private family archives.