A fond farewell

The Old Man's funeral went perfectly. It was a modest affair, no more than a score of people, but they came from as far as Paris and Hungary, Wales, Manchester and Bristol, and ranged in age from 20s to 70s.

We, his family,  had put a lot of thought into getting it right: I wanted to do it well. My own parents had pathetic conveyor-belt affairs that were devoid of personal content but I was in my 20s then and incapable of 
taking control of anything.

The (re-usable) coffin bore one huge bunch of daffodils and was carried by family members and a loyal supporter. The music, poems and tributes had been carefully chosen and thoughtfully crafted. The sun shone  and although The Old Man would rather have been enjoying the occasion (as he had on his 90th birthday three years ago ) than contained in a stout cardboard box we all felt he would have been impressed by the proceedings.
His final exit was accompanied by the reverberating strains of Stenka Razin. Then we, the living, retired to talk and eat, to renew acquaintances and to transform loss into memory.

THEY told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead,
 They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.
 I wept as I remember'd how often you and I
 Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.
 
 And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,
 A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest,
 Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake;
 For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.