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The funeral was yesterday morning and, as ever when it is a young person, was overwhelming in the amount of people attending - at least 700.  We were in the hall that had a live link up, and there was standing room only, with people standing at least three deep.  The service was in three parts - telling of the person's life, with funny stories, the now - where the family are deeply mourning, and the lots of support they have; and then what the future will hold for them, how they will find a new routine, a different way of being from now on. 

I haven't been to a burial for many a year.  I wondered what word I could use to describe it, but, for me, I found it shocking.  These days we are used to the streamline-ness of the crematorium, the smooth path of going into the room, having a service.  Then the curtains close and everyone troops outside to look at the flowers, cry, hug and have a fag.  This was stark.  Especially, with all the crunchy, snow and cold air that creaped into your bones.  His body was carried in the coffin, piled high with flowery tributes, by family and friends, lowered into the ground and personal things put into there with him, as they didn't want, and he was too young, for flowers to be thrown down.  He had a shotgun salute and a hunting horn played in the misty air, then sobbing parents, family and young friends were silently drawn away.

I don't know how his parents woke up that morning, knowing they had to bury their son.  I know this happens all the time and all around the world.  That this is life.  Awe, it's shite sometimes.