Death as routine?

Gravestone of William Butler Yeats, Poet and S...

Yeats, Poet and Statesman, at Drumcliffe, County Sligo. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We had a discussion about family and stuff last night, my youngest daughter (she’s 21) and me. Our family has had so many funerals to go to. We talked about how this one is just another one to be arranged. And that’s it, sort of.

She made a list.
Uncle H
Grand uncle R
Grand aunt A
Step grandma
One friend
Friend of boyfriend
Best friends mother
Step-grandma #2

My list:
Aunt H
Grandpa (mums side of the family)
Grandma (mums side of the family)
My father
Uncle S
Aunt A
Brother in law H (we never had much contact though)
Good friend O
Mother –in- law
Uncle R
Step mother
Mother-in-law #2
Aunt M

That’s 17 during my 48 years. No wonder funerals are getting to be routine.

We do remember them, all of us who are still here.

I feel just empty inside, thinking about it. And the pain  I  endured, sort of makes it impossible to grieve. Or maybe it is something else. It might be that it has never been good, my family. It has been hurt, pain, loss, and so many other of those bad bad feelings. Have I ever felt loved by the ones in the generation before me? I don’t know, I won’t dwell on it right now anyway.

Here’s to them all. Honour, respect, acknowledgement. You probably did your best, and if you didn’t, well, you might not have known better. I hope you live life to the fullest. All of you but one.

Those dancing days are over
Come, let me sing into your ear;
Those dancing days are gone,
All that silk and satin gear;
Crouch upon a stone,
Wrapping that foul body up
In as foul a rag:
I carry the sun in a golden cup.
The moon in a silver bag.

Curse as you may I sing it through;
What matter if the knave
That the most could pleasure you,
The children that he gave,
Are somewhere sleeping like a top
Under a marble flag?
I carry the sun in a golden cup.
The moon in a silver bag.

I thought it out this very day.
Noon upon the clock,
A man may put pretence away
Who leans upon a stick,
May sing, and sing until he drop,
Whether to maid or hag:
I carry the sun in a golden cup,
The moon in a silver bag.

William Butler Yeats

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