Personal Reflection: Three Regrets
Hi Angé,
I have two confessions. Actually, three.
The first is this: I didn’t record your voice reading stories to what would have been your grandchildren. I had the idea — more than once — but I let the moment pass. Now, Rocco and his sister will never hear the warmth in your voice, your special way with words, your pauses and laughter. They’ll never hear you say their names. And that breaks me.
The second: I didn’t ask enough questions. Not the right ones. Not the ones I now ache to ask. About your childhood. Your thoughts. Your feelings on those quiet days. About photos, about people in them, about moments I now look at and wonder — what was happening here? I thought we had the time !
And the third: I didn’t hold you enough. I didn’t touch you enough. I didn’t love you as fully and completely as I could have. That is hard to write. But it’s true. And it hurts.
I can’t go back. But maybe someone else still can. So this chapter is for them.
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1. What It Means to “Play the Movie Forward”
When someone you love is dying, you often get stuck in the now — in appointments, side effects, in trying to make them comfortable or simply survive the day. But if you can pause and look beyond the moment — if you can “play the movie forward” — then you give yourself and them a chance to prepare with love and intention.
Playing the movie forward means imagining life without them — not just in the first few weeks, but in the years to come. The immediate future matters: the first birthday without them, the first Christmas chair that sits empty, the first holiday where their laughter is missing. These moments are raw and sharp, and thinking ahead can help you decide what small comforts to put in place now.
But it also means thinking about five or ten years from now. School graduations. Weddings. New grandchildren. Sunday braais where younger family members may never have met them, but where their stories could still be told. From that imagined future, you can ask: What can I do today so they are still present in those moments? Whether it’s recording their voice, gathering their recipes, or writing down the stories they always told — these acts keep them part of your life, not just in memory, but in presence.
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2. The Letters They’ll Never Write — Unless You Help
One of the simplest and most powerful acts you can encourage is a letter. It doesn’t need to be long. It doesn’t even need to be profound. Just honest.
A letter from a grandmother to a grandchild who is not yet born. A note from a father to his teenage son on his 18th birthday. A simple message to a partner for an anniversary they won’t live to see.
It might say:
“I wish I could be there today. I’m not — but I’m watching. I’m proud of you. I love you.”
You can offer them the time and space to write it. Or you can write what they dictate. These words become legacy. A kind of future presence. A final whisper from the heart.
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3. Recordings, Videos, and the Sound of Their Voice
We underestimate the sound of a voice. Its tone. Its texture. The little inflections that bring a person back in an instant.
If your loved one is well enough, record them. Telling stories. Laughing. Reading. Singing. Saying hello. Saying goodbye. Don’t worry about the background noise. Don’t worry about what they’re wearing. Just capture the voice. The soul in the sound.
This isn’t morbid. It’s memory in motion. It’s a gift to yourself and to the generations that follow. And in moments of deep sadness, it becomes something you can return to — not to prolong grief, but to remind yourself that love once lived fully in this world.
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4. Ask the Questions Now — Even the Small Ones
Ask about the photo you always meant to ask about. The scar you never got the story behind. The recipe you never learned to cook. The song that always made them cry.
Ask about their life. Their first memory. Their greatest fear. Their proudest moment. Ask them what made them laugh. What they loved about their parents. What they wish they’d done differently.
Some people will want to talk. Some won’t. But don’t be afraid to try. Because every little answer becomes a thread in the tapestry you’ll hold when they’re gone.
And every unasked question becomes a quiet ache.
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5. Holding, Touching, Loving — While There’s Still Time
Touch is language. It says, I’m here. You’re not alone. I love you.
If you’re able to — hold them more. Sit close. Rub their back. Stroke their hair. Hold their hand even when it’s quiet and no one is speaking.
Often, we pull back because we’re afraid of hurting them, of invading space, of making it too real. But in those final days, touch becomes presence. And presence becomes peace.
Don’t wait until it’s too late to say with your arms what your words can’t always hold.
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6. Legacy Is Built by Intention, Not Accident
Legacy is not only what we leave behind — it’s what we set in motion.
When you play the movie forward, you begin to ask:
• What will they be remembered for?
• How can that continue to grow even after they’re gone?
• What causes, values, or rituals can we carry on?
Maybe they loved planting. Then keep a garden. Maybe they mentored others. Then start a scholarship. Maybe they were known for birthday cakes. Then bake one every year and share the story.
It’s these intentional acts — tiny or large — that keep the person active in your life, even after death.
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7. Planning the Goodbye Together
We often think of funerals and memorials as something done after death. But if time allows, they can be lovingly planned before — with the person who matters most.
When I asked Angé what kind of music she wanted at her memorial, she smiled and said, “Not too sad. And definitely no organ or a formal service. Honour me by making it an informal day.
We talked about candles, about photos, about stories. She didn’t give me a checklist, but she gave me something more valuable — her blessing, her spirit, and a sense of what would honour her.
If your loved one is open to it, talk about these things:
• Do they want a quiet gathering or a big celebration?
• Are there songs or readings that feel meaningful?
• Who do they want to speak?
• What stories would they love shared?
• Any “don’ts”? (One woman I knew explicitly banned black ties and sad poetry.)
These conversations can feel strange at first. But they’re acts of trust. And when the time comes, you’ll feel a sense of clarity — not because the pain is less, but because the love was clearer.
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8. The Power of a Final Message
Some people want to leave something behind — a recorded message, a letter, a short video to be played at their memorial. If they’re willing, encourage it.
It doesn’t need to be perfect. In fact, the rawer, the more unpolished it is, the more human it will feel. Their voice, their face, their words — one last moment of connection.
And for those who attend the memorial or funeral, it becomes a healing anchor. Something that says, I am gone — but I see you. And I love you.
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9. When You Didn’t Get the Chance
If you’re reading this and your person has already passed, and you didn’t have these conversations — please don’t carry guilt.
Most of us don’t know to ask. We’re too busy surviving. Too scared. Too overwhelmed.
So instead, play the movie forward your way. Trust what you know about them. Choose what feels right. Honour their memory through your love, not your regrets.
You can still write a letter. Still start a ritual. Still carry their story forward in a way that changes others.
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10. Creating a Memory Box — Precious Things to Share with Friends and Family
Sometimes, memories need a home — a place where they can rest safely until the right moment.
A memory box is exactly that.
It doesn’t have to be fancy. A shoebox. A tin. A wooden chest. What matters is what you place inside — objects that carry the weight of meaning, the spark of a story, or the echo of a laugh.
Inside might be:
• A favourite scarf that still smells faintly of their perfume.
• Letters or notes they wrote.
• Photographs not yet framed.
• A recipe card in their handwriting.
• A keyring from a trip you took together.
• Ticket stubs from a special day.
• The small, silly gift they once bought you “just because.”
A memory box serves two purposes:
First, it’s a personal comfort — a place you can return to when you need to feel close.
Second, it’s a shared treasure. You can open it with friends and family, telling the stories behind each object, passing them into other hands so their meaning continues to live.
One day, those who never met your loved one will be able to touch the things they touched and feel, in a quiet way, that they know them too.
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Conclusion: Preparing for Tomorrow, Today
This chapter wasn’t easy to write. Because every word comes from what I didn’t do. From what I didn’t ask. From the moments I let pass.
But if even one person reads this and says, I’ll press record today, I’ll ask that question now, I’ll hold them a little longer, I’ll help them shape their memorial — then maybe our pain becomes someone else’s preparation.
And that, in its own way, is a kind of love too.
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Reflective Questions and Action Steps
1. What are three small things you could do now to carry someone’s legacy into the future?
2. If your loved one is still here, what questions have you never asked — and which one could you begin with?
3. What future moment (birth, graduation, wedding) might benefit from a letter or message from your loved one?
4. Could you gently initiate a conversation about their memorial or funeral preferences? If so, how might you start?
5. If your loved one is already gone, what act of memory or legacy can you begin today — for them, and for you?
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Because of Angé
Because of Angé, I press record when a voice makes me smile.
Because of Angé, I ask the question the moment it appears in my mind.
Because of Angé, I hold the people I love for a second longer — because I know the day will come when a second longer is not possible.
And because of Angé, I will keep her memory alive in ways that touch the future — in letters, in rituals, in small treasures passed from hand to hand
👍New Chapter 17: the memorial should reflect the person The Fruit Forest — A Memorial in Her Name, and in Mine
“We planted trees, not tears.”
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Opening Reflection: A Different Kind of Goodbye
There was no printed program.
No priest, no organ, no line of chairs facing a podium.
Just a dusty road leading up to the farm at Bokrivier, a field full of stories, and a quiet instruction:
“Please bring a fruit tree.”
That was Angé’s memorial.
It was what she wanted. Not because she ever said the words “please plant trees instead of praying,” but because we knew her. We knew how much she loved earth and roots and hands in soil. We knew she wanted to give life, not be remembered in marble or stone. And we knew that this place — our home, her sanctuary — was the right place to begin saying goodbye.
So we invited friends, family, loved ones. And they came.
Carrying guava saplings, lemon trees, plum trees. One person brought a fig tree. Another brought a wild olive. People arrived in pairs or alone, planting with spades and with tears, often in silence, sometimes in laughter.
There was the smell of fresh-turned earth in the air, sharp and damp. Birds called from the fence posts, their songs mingling with the scrape of spades and the low murmur of voices telling stories. The breeze carried both dust and the faint scent of the first blossoms from an old peach tree nearby.
And between it all, I planted my own tree. Just me. Later that evening, I turned over the old vegetable garden and planted sunflower seeds. Not for anyone else. Just for Angé. Just for me.
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1. There’s No One Right Way to Say Goodbye
Let’s begin here: there is no universal “right” way to have a memorial.
Some people need a church — the steadiness of pews, the comfort of liturgy, the power of shared faith.
Some people need hymns and candles and formal readings.
Some people need the structure of a service that follows time-honored rhythms: opening prayer, eulogy, sermon, song, benediction, burial.
And that’s not wrong.
In fact, it’s deeply right if that’s the life the person lived. If they were raised in that tradition. If the people around them find peace in ritual. If the church was their community — their anchor, their rhythm, their place of belonging.
A traditional memorial can be beautiful and profound.
It can offer containment for overwhelming grief.
It can carry the mourners when words fail.
And for many, it provides the cultural and emotional scaffolding needed to begin the journey of mourning.
What matters is not how we do it — but why we do it.
The memorial should reflect the person.
It should reflect their story, their spirit, and their connections — whether that’s through sermons or spades.
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2. Let the Life Guide the Format
Angé’s life didn’t fit in a chapel. Not because she rejected it — she just lived differently.
She was nature, not walls. She was spontaneous, not scheduled. She found her connection to God in flowers, not formal prayers. Her community wasn’t confined to a Sunday — it was lived out in meals, text messages, swims, and sunrises.
So, her memorial needed to reflect that.
We didn’t print orders of service. We handed out seedlings.
We didn’t give a speech. We dug holes in the earth.
People arrived in hiking boots and sandals, some holding children, others holding back tears.
The space filled with laughter, stillness, and shared memories. No microphone was needed. The birds sang more than we did.
And that was exactly how she would have wanted it.
If someone else’s life had included choirs and communion, that would have been right for them.
If someone’s life had included mosque prayer, or a drum circle, or silence in a meditation hall — then that’s what the memorial should reflect.
The way we say goodbye should match the way they lived.
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3. The Communal Memorial: Letting Others Say Goodbye Too
When someone you love dies, it’s natural to feel possessive.
They were mine, you think. Our relationship was special.
And it was.
But others hold their own stories, too. Their own Angé. Their own heartbreak.
And the memorial is the one time where all of those stories are invited into the same space.
At the Bokrivier memorial, it was incredible to see how many versions of Angé arrived.
People talked about her horse riding — her confidence, her gentleness, the way she spoke to the animals like old friends. Others told stories of firefighting — the intensity, the commitment, the strength it took to show up again and again for others, even when the flames were close and the terrain was rough.
Someone mentioned her endless energy for helping a neighbour — showing up with bread and coffee when their power went out. Another recalled the way she would laugh, head back, eyes closed, at some silly joke only she found funny.
Everyone had a version of her. And that day gave them space to hold that version up to the light, to grieve, to smile, to say goodbye.
We sometimes forget that a memorial isn’t just for the immediate family.
It’s also for those whose grief may not be loud — but it is real.
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4. The Private Goodbye: The One That Belongs Only to You
But amid the crowd, you also need something else:
A goodbye that’s just for you.
After the fruit trees were planted, and people had gone home, I stayed behind.
The sun was setting, and I walked alone across the garden.
I turned over the earth with my own hands, pulling out weeds, smoothing the soil.
And then I planted sunflower seeds — one by one — into the ground Angé loved.
There was no one watching. No one speaking. Just me, my breath, the wind, and her memory.
That was my real memorial. My private ritual.
It was quiet, raw, sacred.
Private goodbyes matter because they are where you can be unguarded. No hosting, no managing, no explaining your tears or your silence. It is where grief is allowed to stretch its legs without fear of judgment. Some people find this moment in a place — a favourite bench, a mountain view, a garden bed. Others find it in a ritual — lighting a candle, writing a letter, reading a shared book.
Everyone needs this. Whether you create a ceremony with two or three close friends, or simply sit alone with a photo, a candle, or a memory — you need a space that isn’t shared.
That quiet goodbye doesn’t need a date or invitation. It just needs truth. And time.
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5. Who You Invite — And Who You Don’t Have To
Here’s something people don’t say enough:
You don’t have to invite everyone to the memorial.
It’s okay to have boundaries.
It’s okay to say, “No, this space is not for them.”
There may be people who want to be there out of curiosity. Out of obligation. Even out of ego.
And if their presence will disturb the peace, distract from the moment, or bring stress — then you are fully within your rights to say no.
Not everyone who wants to mourn deserves a seat in the front row.
A memorial should be a safe space. A sacred space.
It’s not a social event. It’s not a performance.
It’s a goodbye.
And if that goodbye would be hurt by certain people, then don’t feel guilty about drawing a line.
You’re allowed to protect your grief.
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6. Memorials That Grow On
The most beautiful part of Angé’s memorial is that it didn’t end.
It continues.
Every time I walk through that patch of land, I see fruit trees growing stronger.
I see the fig tree sprouting new leaves. The guava bearing tiny fruit.
I see sunflowers turning their faces to the sky.
This is not a frozen moment in time. It’s a living memory.
Something that changes with the seasons, that invites return, that offers shade, food, color.
And that’s the quiet magic of a living memorial — it calls you back, again and again. Birthdays, anniversaries, or simply on days when the missing is too heavy. It gives you a place to talk to them. To stand still. To remember.
We don’t often think of memorials as something that evolve. But they can.
You can return to them. Add to them. Let them grow.
Because grief doesn’t end with a service. And neither should remembrance.
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7. Planning a Memorial? Ask the Right Questions
If you’re facing the hard task of planning a memorial — here are the questions that matter:
• What reflects their spirit?
• What reflects your relationship with them?
• What do you need in order to begin your own goodbye?
• What do others in their life need?
• Are there traditions, rituals, or settings that bring comfort?
• Are there expectations you need to release?
• How might this memorial live on in the years to come?
And perhaps the most important one:
What would they have wanted — and what do you want to carry forward from that day?
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Conclusion: The Goodbye That Roots You
A memorial isn’t a performance.
It’s a turning point.
A space to begin the work of carrying someone inside you — differently, now.
Angé’s memorial wasn’t a goodbye carved in stone. It was roots in soil. It was fruit trees swaying gently in the wind. It was a forest being born — one that will feed others for years to come.
It gave others space to remember.
And it gave me the sacred silence to say: Goodbye, my love.
Whatever memorial you choose — traditional, informal, or somewhere in between — let it be honest. Let it reflect the person. Let it begin your next step.
And don’t forget to make room — just for you.
You deserve that moment too.
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Reflective Prompts
1. If you could design a memorial that reflected your loved one’s spirit — what would it look like?
2. How do you feel about including or excluding certain people from the memorial? What boundaries do you need?
3. Have you made time for a personal goodbye, separate from the formal one? If not, what would that look like for you?
4. Is there a way for the memorial to live on — a ritual, garden, gathering, or tradition you can return to over time?
5. If you could add to that memorial over the next five years, what would you add — and why?
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Because of Angé
Because of Angé, I know that a memorial can be alive. Not a static plaque, not a cold headstone, but something that grows — something that changes with the seasons, just as grief changes with time. She taught me that remembrance can be both tender and practical, that love can be planted in soil as much as it can be spoken in words.
Because of Angé, I know the value of inviting people into a shared goodbye — not because it is easy, but because it allows every person to carry a piece of her forward in their own way.
And because of Angé, I know that my own goodbye doesn’t have to be public, loud, or perfectly scripted. It can be quiet, private, and held only in my heart. The sunflower seeds I planted in our old garden will grow for her, but also for me — a promise that love, like roots, doesn’t end where the ground begins
