This article is based on this dutch article of Martijn Benders
My mother often had that signature dead-straight fringe reminiscent of the Carpenters, which is why I chose this video to open the funeral with. Annie was a superstar, a star shining brighter than others.
It may have been a strange choice, one that bordered on discomfort, to use the rare version of Are You Lonesome Tonight by Elvis, the one where he bursts into laughter midway through the song, and to intercut that with a performance of Suspicious Minds:
But the entire service created a sense of alienation and affected everyone differently: one person expressed being deeply moved, another said they left the funeral feeling somewhat lighter.
I do regret a little that the Dela representative filming the service switched out the clip where I overlaid Marty Robbins’ The Hanging Tree with Brendan Lee for a static shot of the casket. Whether this was an editorial choice, I can’t be sure, but if it was, I do not appreciate it.
And of course, we also overlaid Harry Belafonte with Boney M:
In short, it was a very musical funeral, something that suited my mother perfectly. She knew the lyrics to every song ever composed by heart, and though they claimed she was supposedly ‘demented,’ all it took was a single opening line, and she could sing the rest of the song without missing a word.
For anyone interested, the entire funeral can be watched here. Veronique and I also read some poetry aloud:
(Oh, and yet another fantastic live rendition by Ton, the same piece he performed live at my father’s funeral…)
Poetry by me and one I translated from Klyuyev:
Peace
Snow falls across the path.
White camomile blooms of light.
Finally, I will dream of a window.
My hands freeze shut.
Through that window I see inside
my mother softly singing.
A big tomcat lies purring
while a grasshopper weds a mouse
with a strip of bark as their vow.
The stove bench where you sleep so gently
with the cat by your side through the night.
While father stirs in sleepy rustling
with wood and glue from the beehive’s might.
The rosy warmth of the apple trees
revives the color in my cheeks,
as violets weave their scent
into mother’s gray strands.
Klyuyev / translated by Martijn
With kind regards,
Martinus Benders