The sun offered a tender warmth on a day that felt like early September at seventy-one degrees, not mid-December. Mountains rose up behind us so clear, you could see every little peak and boulder. Down on the grass, still perilously soft from last week’s rain, spinning pinwheels and gladiolas marked loved ones who have moved on.
Family spoke; we laughed and cried.
There was no one presiding, no one depositing gentle platitudes about a person they’d never met. Just us, sharing when it felt like the right time to do so, feeling grateful anytime someone risked approaching the podium.
At the end, our fourteen year-old nephew sang Amazing Grace.
It’s not every day that I say that the best part of my day was a funeral.
(And the crack in his newly-deepening voice made it even sweeter.)