Funeral for a Friend

Day 83 of #100Daychallenge

He steps up to the lectern on the altar. His beard is neatly trimmed. His eyes are downcast. He shuffles his notes. He sighs and looks out at the congregation, a mix of family, druids, queers, dancers, and wanderers – a colourful mix of humanity. They are here in mourning. And he begins, speaking in a low voice, unsure of the task, of his place here, but speaking because he must.
He was my best friend. He inspired me to be a better man. I told him that often. I don’t know if he ever really believed me.
He showed me how to dance, dance deep into my belly and bellow and howl and cry and laugh and play like a man lost of his senses.
He showed me how to be serious too. He was often serious, the kind of serious that sometimes annoyed me when he thought about the accuracy of my joke rather than laughing at the sillyness of it. And he didn’t do things by halves. Even when things frightened him, he found ways to move with it. He taught me the value of ceremony, of ritual, of saying it aloud.
He laughed wholeheartedly. He laughed till he cried. He gave the best hugs and the best kisses. He cried a lot. No matter what the day or the occasion, there was always something that moved him to tears. He cried at the beauty of things, at the sadness of things.
He loved life. He loved you all. He loved me, for me.

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