Vicky's Funeral

Vicky was a neighbour from the 'hood. A Greek woman of indeterminable age. She had long hair, smooth skin, a good grip on English and Jesus in her heart. She was devastated when our daughter Jaz died and almost inconsolable when George, our oldest also died, just three and a half years later. She wept at the mere mention of his name and repeatedly asked 'Jesus, why?'

We were all very fond of Vicky. She was a beautiful soul. A seamstress by trade and a perfectionist by nature, the local fancy-pants interior designers kept her busy with custom-made cushions using outrageously expensive fabrics and trim.  But sewing for neighbours often took priority. At the start of each year, she'd take George's school pants in and up and let them out and down each term as he grew. She even whipped up four cushions from let over fabric one week - one for each of the kids.

At Easter, and in spite of my protesting, she'd often slip me $5 or $10 and insist I buy some chocolate for the children.

Vicky's sister lives down the road from us and Vicky would walk past our house - almost daily - to visit her and have coffee, so we ran into her regularly. 'I loooove youuuuu,' was her usual greeting.

Vicky died last week. Turned out she was 79.

I mentioned to our elderly Italian neighbour we were going to the funeral and we'd be happy to take him. 'No, no, no... I no go' he insisted. Hmmmm. There's a story there I'll never know.

The funeral was Friday. It was all Greek to me - literally. Occasionally I recognised a word and realised they'd slipped into English - but it was suspiciously similar - probably had something to do with the singing. The church was spectacular, the bells ritualistic, the incense heady, the day warm - it was very meditative. Sadly, there was no eulogy as we know it - no back story of Vicky, who had never married or had children. A woman who was so generous of heart and probably physically beautiful in her youth - I'd love to have known more about her.

Our neighbourhood Greek Orthodox church.

However, what I did notice in the church, was that all the women - her contemporaries I assume - were all versions of a very, very clear theme. They were all quite short and stocky, most had short hair, much of it blow-waved or permed. Their clothes could all have come from the same shop they were so similar, right down to the fabric and pattern, and even their gold jewellery seemed part of the 'uniform'. It was uncanny.

It got me thinking; do my peers and I also look like versions of the same theme? I was sitting with a couple of them - also neighbours. I stole a glance along the pew - long hair, high heels, make up, tailored dresses - yep. Same same.

Vale Vicky. We looooove youuuuu!