For Mum's funeral we ran around and organized things and packed and booked plane tickets and took time off from work and flew to Canada and did the service and reception and so forth.
Mema didn't want anyone to be bothered, so she asked that there only be a graveside service, and that only for the people already in Brunswick; the Virginia contingent will have a memorial at the farm when we're all there. I'm reminded of Robert Frost's poem that ends with:
They listened to his heart.
Little - less - nothing! - and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
When I die, I'm going to insist that people fly to Uzbekistan or Ecuador or wherever I've settled and attend the funeral. It's when you go through the inconvenience and bother and time that you grasp that it's important.
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