When they come, the others,
They hug and they kiss and they just know.
It’s this unspoken understanding hovering above them.
They hold themselves in silence knowing that
Death comes and we never know who’s next.

And it stays on you – death’s scent.
Lifting a body that’s been reduced,
Feeling the weight of old memories,
Keeping yourself in their final touches.

It’s subtle. These little details.
Kept between jokes and catch-ups of the living.

But when the time comes, it comes.
And the room is set still to honour every

I still dont completely get it – the concept of funerals. Who is it for? Why do we really cry?