The Service
I went to a memorial service yesterday for a man I barely knew. We had a casual relationship; it was centered around a musician we favored. We knew one another on sight, and always had nice words. But I knew nothing of his travails and his passing surprised me. Memorial services, however, are for the living, and several friends were close to the departed, so I volunteered to help the man providing the sound system for the service.
Since the service was crowded, I stood in an ante room listening to the songs and eulogies, waiting in case I was needed. My company was a grandmother tending her grandson. And I thought that was fitting, age and youth in a time of death. The young boy watched his electronic device, and the grandmother did her best to keep him quiet and neither seemed particularly concerned with the proceedings. They were there in support of loved ones memorializing their fallen friend as was I.
And when the service ended, the mourners gathered to eat and tell stories and continue remembering, and I was there to listen. And I thought of how nice it was, and fitting, that a life, now ended, was going to become fragments of memories carried about by his friends and family, with each story being what the teller was carrying away. And I hoped it was enough to support those who needed support in this time of loss and that it simply would become part of their story to be told by their friends when the time came.