TheEndlessDrive

Every year, as tradition, duty and love demand, at least once, I drive to a part of south London called Streatham. There I visit the graves of the close members of my family who have passed away. Accompanying me on this tortuous journey is my living family.

It is a terrible drive from the edge of North East London to the other extreme in the South of the city. It takes between nearly two hours to as much as three hours to get there. My late father always believed that the right weather for such a journey is incessant rain and today he got his wish. I am convinced he would be laughing as we stood in the torrential rain visiting his grave and that of the rest of our family.

I recited the ancient prayers in memory of the departed and the rain found every square inch of our formerly dry clothing and turned it into a soggy mess, despite our water proof jackets and umbrellas.

I looked at the ages of my close relatives and realized I am already older than two of them, and approaching the age of several others. I felt like, perhaps I might as well wait for my turn at the cemetery to save my kids the cost of a funeral car. My older sister, who was standing next to me, certainly shouldn’t bother buying any long life batteries.

I noticed that the family plot, owned by my late father, still has space for one of us, but I have decided that his saying, “first come first served!” should hold true, and this is one race I don’t want to win.

Afterwards, in case we were not wet enough, we gossiped about our kids and grand kids, as ever they are an endless source of chat. I wonder if, one day, a long, long time in the future, any of our kids will ever bother making such a pilgrimage to our future burial place. Just for the record kids, that will be at the Cheshunt cemetery, and if you do turn up I do hope it will rain every time you come, as I agree with my dad, it should rain in such a place; and rest assured as you stand there with rain dripping off the end of your noses, I shall be laughing.

There is only one thing worse than the drive to the cemetery, and that is the drive from the cemetery, which seems to take even longer in the impossible and impassible traffic. Home never looked drier or more welcoming; and I believe it will be the same for years to come.