Went to a funeral for a friend's son yesterday. He died a week ago, at a relatively young 35. I knew him only as a small boy; there's a chunk of his life unknown to me. Just hints from the slide show displayed on the church wall, and comments from the minister.
I went as a support to his mother, who I haven't seen in almost 30 years. She looks much the same; I have less hair.
As I held her after the funeral, she kept saying how kind I was to drive 30 minutes south to attend the funeral. Don't know if it was kind; it was the right thing to do.
Saw a few old poetry friends at the ceremony. Somehow, seeing those people, and seeing the photos of the young boy I briefly knew, conjured ghosts of a sort. I felt haunted and on edge the rest of the day. There are echoes this morning.
Pray for Blake; pray for his father, currently in a far distant land and unable to be at the service. Pray peace to Lissa, the mother who has survived her only son.
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