I gave myself an hour to get here. Got here in half an hour.  The church is empty. My friend’s body isn’t here yet. I am reliving experiences I had with Joey. He is alive in my head like a slide show. Vivid. Vivre means to be alive. Same root. I am glad that his memory is alive. I wish he were.

This is a Catholic Church, not too far removed from my experience as an Anglican. I grew up as a choirboy and recognize the show biz aspect of a church service. The organist and tenor and soprano were the first in place out of sight in the choir loft. An elderly gentleman in a white robe came and made sure all the props were in order and the mic’s on. I am assuming he is what I would call the verger. He later led the coffin procession with a cross on a staff. His other duties were to assist at communion an provide the priest with holy water to sprinkle on the coffin and lit the incense and handed the thurible to the thurifer (priest) who swung it around ensuring an aromatic coverage for Joey’s remains. Everything was choreographed and succinct. Stand, sit, pray, stand, greet, sit, stand.

I am sure this ceremony was somewhat cathartic and had meaning for Joey’s family and friends. I am glad I went. Joey is sorely missed by all who knew him.

Be it resolved that when it’s my turn to go that there will be no ceremony, no ritual, no attempted solace from a virtual stranger (priest). Remember me vividly and kindly. It’s enough!