When the procession of cars had left, I took a few moments alone by the graveside. As a way to focus on the moment, I drew these lines in a pocket book and later added crayon. I should have drawn fewer lines: it would have worked better, meant more.
My mother lies in that earth, in a coffin of woven banana leaves, covered by flowers taken from our gardens, lowered there by us who then scattered soil and petals and rosemary. She will have a plaque flush with the ground and within a season her resting place will be overgrown by tall grasses and wild meadow flowers. She chose to be buried at the top of a slope, so she might have a view.
In all the years, I have only drawn her twice. The sketch below was sometime this year and, inevitably, at a pub meal.
Preparing for the funeral, we unearthed dozens of old photographs. Over the coming months I hope to re-imagine family from old images, not as copies but as new art, as remembrance. I would welcome links to your pages if you have done this too.