It was a beautiful sunny afternoon. Atypically warm for December in the north east. I dropped mrs hand and my mother at the corner to find parking. Though the service was to begin at 1:00, when I entered the sanctuary I was surprised to find it full before 12:30. I looked over the crowd. We people who had gathered for her. To remember her. To be quite and contemplate life without her. As was her wish, the crowd had splashes of color. With our wash of variant oranges and reds balanced against the black it looked like we were a field of poppies. I don’t know how she felt about poppies, but I love them. I thought of not seeing the things I love and it caught in my throat.
As we listened to jazz and stories of her, there was a little voice up front. In another situation his father would have taken him from the room so as not to disturb. But his was her voice. We listened to him giggle and talk as we heard about her and how she loved and was loved. How she lived and the people who knew her were better for it. All the while was his little voice. One of 3 remaining pieces of her.
It’s what made me smile and what made me cry.