Legacies

Today was Nain Betws’ funeral — a solemn moment for Kev’s family, and one more in what’s become a sad pattern these past four years: the only time they all seem to gather anymore is to either marry or bury someone. A clan of professional mourners almost, not by choice but by frequency. It’s tragic how often grief brings people together when everyday life never quite manages to.

I didn’t go to the funeral. Declan's child-minder is on holiday, which meant there was no one to look after him, so the boy and I stayed put. Later, we’ll take a walk up to Knees Up Mother Brown in Betws-yn-Rhos — not to drown anything in drink, but maybe to reflect, remember, and let life carry on in its own messy, unpredictable way.

I’ve always found funerals to be strange rituals. Are they meant to help us mourn someone’s passing, or celebrate the life they led? And once you're gone, what’s left of you, really? A fleeting thought, maybe — a moment someone has when they pass by your old house, or a name that lingers in a half-remembered anecdote. Is that your legacy? Shouldn’t it be something that lives longer and louder?

I sometimes wonder if even someone like Hitler obsessed over that same question — the desire not to be forgotten, regardless of the cost.

I know some people who actually scan the obituaries looking for a funeral to attend — to offer support, maybe, or just to break the routine. Me? I’d rather mourn in my own way, in my own space, without the religious pageantry or platitudes. Let me reflect on someone’s life in silence, or through stories, not hymns. I saw it with Malcolm — the church service wasn’t for him, but done to keep his mum happy. It was a strange compromise: grief dressed up in someone else’s rules.

It makes me think — when I go, how should I say goodbye? Should I plan it in advance? Make it something unorthodox and wild just to throw a wrench in the system? Or should I just leave it up to whoever’s left behind to sort it all out?

But if I do that, there’s a real risk that some vicar will step in to exploit my death — to milk the moment for comfort and control, turning my absence into a platform for their own beliefs.

Maybe I’ll sidestep it entirely. Maybe I’ll just donate my body to science — let a group of medical students have a good laugh flicking my eyeballs across the lecture theatre or playing rugby with my brain. That’d be a send-off no priest could hijack.