Yesterday was a day for a pilgrimage. My journey was very short but its purpose was sweetly bitter. Old men die in winter, the old man’s friend and in winter I visit the cemetery to think about one old man who died, who was once young, vibrant and knew so much of life and one younger woman who knew death first, and knew it well.
The advice to rage was badly given; those who are dying should not rage; rage is for those who watch. Some words have a beauty which forgives the quality of what they mean.
The cemetery is always cold when I visit. The perfumes of death are sad. In honouring the dead we honour our lives, stretched still, fading and piteous as the headstones.