Goodbye

june pointer, '55 - '06

A lot about the dying this week
First, this Sunday, it was novelist Gerard Reve who died - although that was no real surprise. He was old and very ill. In fact there was really nothing to be sad about. It was his time. Reve had never feared his death. A good part of his live – as from his fourty’s - he had actually lived towards that final day. He wrote about that glorious day, imagening how his beloved God – Reve was gay AND very religious – would finally call on him. Still, even Reve couldn’t have dreamt that his funeral would be on Easter Saturday. He will be pleased with that. So, no reason for any sadness. We’ve still got the books, right?

Then Tuesday, that was the day to burry J.O.’s mom. I’ve never met her, so guess I wasn’t there for her nor for me, but for J.O. Who did very okay, by the way. His girlfriend was with him as were his two little children. The other day J.O. had told me how his little son (he is about 6) reacted on his grandmothers death: ,,We best spend a lot of time together with grandpa, daddy. So he won’t be so alone.’’
It was the first time I saw J.O.’s father. He was standing in front of his wife’s grave, while the minister was talking about whatever ministers are talking about at such occasions. I could only see the back of his head and a glimpse of the red rose he held in his hand. In front of him was this white coffin - the coffin that contained the lifeless body of the woman that he had shared most of his life with and whom he, without any doubt, had loved so very much. What could this man possibly be thinking at this very moment, I asked myself. I didn't find an answer. He looked fragile and very strong at the same time.
After the ceremony everybody left to have a drink together in some restaurant that I had never been. Since I was the only one who had come by bike, I had to find the way to it on my own. I never found the place. Drove around for an hour and then gave up. I hope John was okay. I hope he was with his father and with his little son.

Wednesday. The nine o’clock news told me June Pointer had died. “What?!! O My God!” No, it wasn’t because I was such a big fan of the Pointer Sisters or what. Okay, I was in my so called ‘Wonderyears’ when they had their biggest hits, so there are memories enough, but that was not the reason for my reaction on June’s death. It was the thought of my friend Gg in New York. She had known June, and much more than that. I knew how special June was to her. Poor Gg.
I’m glad I got her on the phone later that evening, to tell her that there was someone thinking of her. Death by itself is lonely enough, isn’t it?