🖊 Small bites of sadness
Lucy Dearlove on the significance of salmon sandwiches at the funeral buffet
If it hadn’t been for my godfather dying, I probably would have never seen them again. Those friends of my parents who we somehow lost touch with but who at one point in my life would have felt close enough to call aunty or uncle. It was the one thing I looked forward to about the funeral; to feel briefly known on the level when someone knows embarrassing stories from my childhood, to temporarily bolster that strange, fragile connection with the place I grew up and will probably never live again. At the wake, in the first pub I ever knew, we stood around talking comfortably, as if the past twenty years had never happened. All of us clutching our individual plates of individual pieces of food from the buffet: miniature pasties, individual slices of quiche, sliced bread sandwiches cut into triangles and racked point upwards.Â
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