And so it goes...

In Slaughterhouse Five, Kurt Vonnegut marks every death in to book with the words,"So it goes."

Words of acceptance. Words of completion. Words of futility. Words suggesting there is more to this.

I'm glad Gloria and I went to the funeral together. It was a good chance the catch up and not get too caught up in various thoughts of mortality. Gloria is good company, and besides, her car is in need of some work. The drive out to Springvale around midday isn't too arduous, a coffee was bought at the McDonalds drive through to help us on the way. Gloria also pointed out that our friend in the box at the front was the same age as her - they were born a fortnight apart. I can see when this makes you a little unsettled. Me, I was in attendance for my friend, his wife. 

Speaking to her the days before, she intimated that he was ready to go, that he as at peace. After 18 years living with prostate cancer, the last few years were not good. In the last few months, he barely left hospital and was looking to transfer to hospice care when he died. As I said, he was ready. 

So it goes. 

It's still sad. 

It was a celebration he would have enjoyed. We could feel him in the chapel, the coffin draped in his much-favoured tie-dyed fabric and his Aston Villa scarf, with lots of pictures of him as a younger man, with his family in Britain, and his time in Australia. I man that was hard to recognise, as I'd only known him for the last 20 years when his hair was grey. The only thing the same was the smile. He appeared to lie changing his hairstyle and facial hair. He also liked wearing shorts. 

His family spoke of him as a kind man, generous with is time, slow to judge, wise and spiritual. He could, and would, talk to anybody. He had a big heart and a yearning for spiritual knowledge. You can't ask for much more than that. 

Talking to his wife afterwards, we spoke of the love at the funeral. He had got a say, choosing the songs, nothing dirge-like. It was at his suggesting the coffin be covered with the tye-dyed cloth and football scarf. I'm thankful he had said something in his final weeks. His wife had threatened him with a fully Greek Orthodox service, being the religion he had converted to marry her all those years ago.

She did good with this. 

After a cup of tea, some sandwiches and a sausage roll, a chat with others from the meditation group we are all a part of, Gloria and I made our way back to the city, pleased we had seen our friend off and supporting our friend in the process. 

"The worst thing is the older you get, the more of these you go to," said Gloria. 

"It seems to be the case."

"They captured him well."

"He was in the chapel, I could feel him," I mentioned. 

"He's keeping an eye on her."

"Indeed."

A little later, I asked Gloria, "Have you though what you might like for your funeral?"

"Oh yes," she replied, "Something witchy. Lots of candles and incense to piss off the neighbours."

"And you in a wicker coffin, strewn with bright flowers and your mates dancing around you to sacred rhythms, with the bodhran beating and tambourine rattling. I can see it!"

"I might have to put that in the instructions. Death is so sanitised."

"It is. But I wonder how many times a coffin has been draped with tye-dyed material at the crematorium."

We giggled. It was so him. 

So it goes. 

What else can you do?

Today's song: