At the start of the pandemic, we heard stories of families who had to say goodbye to their loved ones via iPad. We heard about people who died alone and people who mourned alone. They weren’t easy stories to write, nor to read. It’s just not right, we said. It’s not humane.

Now here I am, paying my final respects to a friend through a laptop screen. It does not feel real, and it does not feel right. 

I keep my camera on, which seems the most respectful option, though it is half and half with the other mourners. A lot of cameras are pointed at the ceiling and I do not blame them. Those of us who have opted to stay on camera are all staring ahead blankly. 

I have thrown a black cardigan on over an outfit that is otherwise just the clothes I wore to work earlier that day. It feels a bit slapdash but the idea of digging out a funeral outfit to wear in the comfort of my own spare bedroom feels more ridiculous.

I rearrange the background behind me instead, which is to say that I take all the mess sitting in frame and throw it off to the side in a pile that I will probably not attend to after the funeral is over – though I have nowhere else to be, no wake to attend.

My internet connection, reliable only for its ability to cut out at the most inopportune moments, stutters and stalls. I hear most of a eulogy from a family member; soft, sincere and peppered with humourous anecdotes. If we were in a church, this is the moment the painful silence would be broken by gentle laughter reverberating around the room. 

But we aren’t, so it isn’t. 

The coffin containing the body of my friend is broadcast to me at three megabits per second and it occurs to me that this is the moment that tears would fall and I would grab the hand of whatever mutual friend sat next to me. I would appreciate past me for deciding not to wear mascara and decide that red blotchy cheeks are better than red blotchy cheeks stained with black streaks.

This is the part where I start to cry, though I cannot quite pinpoint what I am crying about. The death of my friend is the obvious answer, though I suspect it is more than that. The fact that I am watching the funeral of my friend on a laptop, for sure. The fact that I am living through a global event that makes it necessary for us to mourn our dead on Zoom, almost certainly. 

It is better than nothing, I tell myself, though I do not really believe it. It does not feel real and it occurs to me that I could simply click an ‘X’ in the corner of my screen and will it not to be. I stick it out. 

Five minutes later and the usual video conferencing foibles kick in. The top of a toddler’s head appears. Its face zooms in and I realise it has confiscated a tablet from an unsuspecting parent. I get quite invested in the tussle, though it lasts around 10 seconds, then the cameras goes off.

It was some sorely needed light relief in an otherwise torturous hour. We won't say goodbye like this for too much longer, I hope.

Read more: It has taken me 18 years of grieving to learn how to talk about death