The day of the funeral came quickly, even though it seemed Buffy had been planning it for weeks, it came too quickly. The service where people came to speak about Joyce, to write beautiful things and read meaningful poems went too suddenly and Buffy sat there in a trance until it was her turn. She got up, mumbled something about how much her family would miss her, how she hadn’t had enough time to learn how to be as good as her, but how she would take every lesson Joyce had given and try to make her proud.
Spike stared at Buffy all the way through and when she lost her way a simple look towards him received a nod of encouragement and she could carry on. Even that element of the day went quickly, but Buffy wasn’t so upset about that. She slipped back to her seat and waited for the next part anxiously.
After the service Buffy and Spike stood outside to receive everyone’s condolences. Giles was nowhere to be seen and Buffy had put Dawn into one of the cars up the hill to have a cry to herself before returning to the church to stand by Spike.
The people lined up and one by one walked to them, shook hands with them both and told them how they knew Joyce. The hands were a sea, Buffy grabbed one when near like a life raft to cling onto, but before she knew it they were gone again, Spike her only constant by her side.
She felt herself weaken after a time, but before she knew it the last people stepped forward; two women she didn’t know.
“We’re so sorry for your loss.” one of them said, “We worked with your mother, she was a good friend. Such a lovely woman.”
It was said with pride, but also a little gloating on their part, as if Joyce was a prize and her friendship some sort of trophy. It bothered Buffy a little. “Thank you,” she said.
The other woman spoke, “You two are Joyce’s?”
Buffy looked to Spike, he spoke for them both. “Buffy’s her daughter, I’m Joyce’s husband’s son.”
Buffy noted he never referred to them as siblings anymore, not even one slip all day.
The woman gasped, “Of course, she spoke about you all the time, Buffy.” She clucked over the unfamiliar name to make sure she said it right.
Buffy was sure her mother spoke of her, though she was now also sure Joyce had never spoken to these two women about anything in her life.
“We were surprised,” the first woman said, “the service wasn’t last week. It seemed like such a long time before we heard anything about it.”
She seemed confused, but Buffy didn’t miss the theatrics of it or the subtle dig, she hadn’t meant it as a simple statement, she was making a point. Buffy just smiled, but her breath caught a little, then she suddenly couldn’t breathe at all. She walked away back inside the church making some excuse, but she could still hear.
“There was a lot to be done.” said Spike trying to placate the women whilst moving them on from the subject. However they didn’t get the hint.
“Well I’m sure Joyce would have at least wanted us told earlier if the funeral was going to be so late on. I mean some of us at the gallery wondered if anyone was bothering with it at all.”
Buffy stepped away after that. She feared if she stayed the pressure from her clenched together jaw would finally crack her teeth, or worse that she wouldn’t turn her anger inwards at all, maybe even going as far as making a scene with them directly. It probably wouldn’t have been that bad, she knew her mother wasn’t fond of them anyway, because she liked about 5 people she worked with and Buffy had met them all that day already. The rest, according to her mom were busy bodies and gossips. Obviously she had been right and yet whether the woman deserved to be here or not she didn’t want to sully the day with an outburst.
Still she had to wipe away tears at the woman’s accusations. She knew she had been a little lax with the arranging, but she didn’t fully understand everything she was taking on when she’d started. Everything got on top of her and before she knew it she was pushing the date back a day, two days, not to mention all the days at the beginning that she had done nothing while she simply grieved.
What was she supposed to do? Was she supposed to be some kind of super hero? Even if she had been, didn’t they know why they were all here? Didn’t this insensitive old witch know her mother had just died?
When they gathered around the grave Buffy couldn’t help but lean forwards and look into the hole in the ground. It was empty now, but soon her mother’s body would fill it up, along with dirt and wood and flowers, and more dirt. They’d seal her up, never to come out, and then one day grass would grow over her as if this had never happened and the earth had never been disturbed, as if she’d never been above ground at all.
Buffy swallowed some bile and stood back again.
She felt like running when everyone came up to stand behind her. She looked around, Spike was stood next to Giles on the other side of her, she caught his eye and he moved straight away bringing Dawn with him closer to her side. They huddled together, like dominos ready to topple in age order. Dawn was the first to go, she fell onto Buffy and Buffy wrapped her up with one arm, stroking her hair as the priest began to speak. He was saying nice things she guessed, but she didn’t hear a word because she was too busy looking around the graveside.
Buffy had been wrong at the hospital thinking that only the people in that room would remember her mother. As she looked into the sea of faces around the grave she realised that whatever their reason for coming, some to grieve, some because they felt guilty not knowing she was ill, some just wanting to come to the exhibition of it all, they were now genuinely sad. Joyce had touched all these people whether they had known it or not before they came, and she would be remembered.
It gave Buffy a little comfort, but then the wind picked up a little, blowing Buffy’s skirt and chilling her legs and she realised that at that moment it might help, but after today these people wouldn’t be here, and the memories of her mother would fade away with time. So it didn’t matter if people remembered her, it didn’t bring her back.
As the priest read on the tears stared to slip from Buffy’s eyes. Spike saw straight away, but no one else was looking, too concerned with their own tears. He reached his arm around her and pulled her into him; her head fell to the side and laid itself on his chest. He kissed the top of her hair.
She didn’t think about looking around to check if someone saw how close they were being, to check their actions had been perceived as sibling-like. She just did it, for the first time she didn’t care.
It mattered to her what people thought, it would always matter, but in that moment they were a family. No one would question or judge them, maybe later, but not now. Now was the time for tears, because they had lost their mother, because they had lost their teacher, and because they would never understand the reason why.