Visiting Jenny

Sunday Mass, and I have a confession to make.  I rarely stayed till the end of Mass.  Usually just after communion, I would veer off from the pews and make my way out of the church building to head straight for the columbarium at the far end of the church compound. Past the Garden of Peace, my pace quickened even as my heart grew heavier. Soon I would be at Jenny’s niche again. To be closer to her, or what remains of her physical being.

I am well aware that my habitual early dismissal reflected poorly on piety and reverence for the proceedings. Jenny would have frowned on such impious behaviour.  But I wanted to be at her niche early so I can have to be alone in the columbarium. And in solitude, I would want to feel her aura coming to life again.

Inside the columbarium, it is calm and peaceful. It is quiet, save for the gentle trickling of water cascading down the sides of the fountain pools, built at the centre of each of the nine interconnecting rooms that make up this sprawling complex.  Except on days when the sky is cloudy or downcast, the room would be illuminated mostly by sunlight streaming down from the skylight above the fountain pool. The ambience is perfect for quiet contemplation and communion with the deceased.

The niches behind the surrounding walls of each room are arranged in alternating 1 foot square stone patterns, each plaque given a standard layout, immaculately displaying the inscribed names against the faces of the deceased, which are printed in black against a small white ceramic square.  A metal crucifix and a small bunch of artificial flowers adorn the front face of each of the niches, along with an inscription taken from the bible.

The biblical verse on Jen’s plaque is partially blocked by the flowers at the base of the plaque, but I am familiar with the words taken from Timothy 4:7.

“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith”

Jenny certainly had fought the good fight even as she had lost in her battle against the disease.  And I am sure she had kept her faith despite barely uttering a word in her final hours, too weakened by the illness to pray aloud or share her last thoughts or wishes with me.

Once at her niche, I would lean close and gently caress the square ceramic tile, upon which her face is printed. This would be as near as I could get to her.  The thought that behind the tiled cover lies the urn that contains her ashes, the final remains of the physical embodiment of a person who has been such an important and precious part of my life for so many years, overwhelms me as never before. I had to fight back the tears and feel the pain all over again.  It is like a part of my own flesh had been torn out and the bones plucked off to be locked away forever.

I stared again at her face that is printed on the ceramic tile. We had carefully selected the photo for this display. She was flashing her most cheerful smile, brimming with vigour, her eyes sparkling when the photo was shot, ironically also in a cathedral in Europe during one of our many holidays abroad. Once more my fingers run through the letters of her name, inscribed on the centre of the square plaque.  I will never get used to seeing her name on that stone wall no matter how many times I look at it.  It seemed too unreal.

With my face leaning against hers, I could smell the single stalk of flower that her sister had placed at her niche some days earlier. Jenny loved flowers.  Some weeks she gets red roses, some weeks it is a carnation with pink or yellow petals, thanks to her wonderful sister who never failed to visit her each week. This single stalk of flower embellishes her niche and makes it stand out from the surrounding ones.  Fresh flowers for Jenny each week but on this day there will be fresh tears shed for her.

My quiet time with Jenny was over too quickly.  In a short while, mass would have ended and other parishioners started flowing in to also pay respect to the dead.  My brief moments of privacy was over. I dried my eyes to regain my composure. 

Soon my kids would be joining me at the columbarium also.  Together, with heads bowed they stood solemnly around their mother’s niche. They might place their hands around my back and gently console me also.  It is hard for me to hide the anguish written on my face.  We lit up candles and prayed silently by ourselves.  Mum would be so pleased to see her flock, huddled together in prayer. We softly recited the Lord’s Prayer and finished up with a Hail Mary prayer, before leaving. 

I would gaze one more time at her niche before turning to walk away.  The niche is a stark and painful reminder to me that Jenny has truly departed, physically no more in this world.  Set in stone, literally speaking. It is hard to believe that I will never be seeing her or hearing her voice again. I would need to look again at that plaque on the wall to understand and accept this.

The niches in this columbarium are built to hold a second urn.  One day when my time is up, my face and name will share the space on the face of Jenny’s plaque. I would not know how soon or how long when this will happen. But one day, as sure as day would turn to night, I will be sharing this space with her.