Gone

I realised yesterday that it isn't until the funeral of a person that the reality that he or she is gone truly sinks in.

I attended the funeral of Paolo Sinagra, with a mass at St Patrick's Basilica, and the funeral service at the Fremantle Mausoleum. I found it difficult - not because of the sadness of the occasion, but because of the way in which it was conducted by the funeral directors in such a detached and clinical manner. Perhaps infusing the ceremony with so much ritual and gravity robbed it of emotion - so much so that when Giuseppina burst into tears and called out in Italian that she missed her husband, that the outpouring of quiet grief felt strange and wrong in the rigid quietude which the funeral directors had erected around the event.

Most alarming of all was the large, pinched-face woman who led the service. She would have made any stern major domo proud, and her dedication to the solemnity of the proceedings and her practiced sympathy made me angry. Why was the casket not borne by members of the Sinagra family from church to hearse, and from hearse to mausoleum? Why was the burnished cross attached using masking tape to the top of Paolo's casket? Why did the directors stand to one side chatting and laughing amongst themselves whilst visitors queued to offer the consolations to the family?

I was disturbed, furious and upset by the cold and sterile way in which the funeral directors conducted the occasion. I didn't want to speak with the other guests - because I wanted to be with my own thoughts.

Most moving of all were the eulogies delivered by Tony and Vince. They told us the story of Paolo's life - of why he became the man that he was: the husband and father who lived for his family in the most traditional sense. It's the typical tale of migrant courage, endurance, dedication and sacrifice, and it was beautiful, touching and magnificent. In those words, we came to know Paolo's lifetime and experiences, and, ironically, came to learn more about the man at his farewelling than we did while he was with us.

As I left, I walked past a crypt on the exterior of the mausoleum. This bore a photograph of a little boy of perhaps six or seven, around which were placed drawings, flowers and other childish memorabilia. Several home-made birthday cards adorned the facade, wishing little Sebastian a happy 10th birthday in heaven.