Words held no power that morning, the looks we gave each other were enough, not just the lookinour eyes but what wasbehindthem; unseen but felt.
‘Did you want to see Ronan?’ she asked me. ‘He’s looking very peaceful, he really is.’
‘I would like to see him, Mrs McCoy. I have this, a wee picture, I’d like to give him if that’s OK?’
‘Of course it is, Brendan.’ She took the photo, her other hand still pressed tight to her chest. ‘Oh, look, oh, I just love this picture of him, Brendan. I’ve never seen this before.’
‘Sports day last year,’ I said.
‘Sports day last year,’ she said vaguely, handing it back to me. ‘Goodness. It’s lovely. It’s perfect.’
She stepped back into the doorway and the hand that had been at her chest reached out and opened for me to hold. Her frail grasp was freezing. She led me inside.
At the opposite end of the chapel of rest was Ronan’s wooden coffin. Oak. Mr McCoy was gently combing his son’s hair. He looked up.
‘Brendan,’ he said.
Mrs McCoy released my hand and I walked forward.
Ronan was wearing a Liverpool jersey. He was surrounded by cross-country medals, mini trophies, photos of him with family and several sealed envelopes with his name written on them. I looked at his face. He did look peaceful.
‘I have this,’ I said to Mr McCoy, showing him the photo I’d brought.
‘Ah, look,’ he said, taking it and looking into it longingly. ‘See if you can find room,’ he said with a tinge of his usual humour. ‘We had to ration ourselves, he’s got so many medals, there’s a load more in his bedroom. I just love that picture, and there’s you,’ he said, pointing me out in it.
‘Sports day last year,’ Mrs McCoy said, joining us.
‘Sports day last year,’ Mr McCoy said, passing the photo back to me.
I placed it by Ronan’s right elbow. Mrs McCoy stood between us and put one arm around me and the other around her husband; the three of us held together looking down at Ronan.
We remained like that, wordless, until a shuffle came from behind us. Mr Feeney nodded when we turned, as one, to look at him.
As one we nodded back, knowing it was time.
Mr Feeney always told me that the most difficult thing for families was the moment just before the lid was put on the coffin, those final seconds of sight the family would ever have of their loved one. He said that those who chose to be present at that moment experienced both a blessing and a curse; it was a healing privilege but a terrible pain with that last glimpse being sealed beneath wood forever. It was a moment, he said, that he hated having to call the time for but Mr Feeney was a man who knew all about time.
We stepped back as Mr Feeney came forward. Vinnie was standing quietly in the doorway with Matty beside him.I’d never seen Matty wearing a suit before or with his hair combed; he didn’t normally assist in the funerals. Both men came forward to help Mr Feeney lift the coffin lid.
The shadow of it passed over Ronan.
Hovering.
Then down.
Slow.
And the last thread of vision snapped out of sight.
Mr and Mrs McCoy shook, holding each other up.
I shook too but bolted my body rigid.
I needed to not break for what I had to do that day.
The coffin lid was screwed tight.
Mr Feeney became the quiet conductor, softly telling Matty to gather the pallbearers and bring them inside. Six men came in and Mr Feeney positioned them for the coffin to be hoisted up and onto their shoulders.
