About a month ago I attended the memorial service for an old acquaintance. She had passed nearly a month before that but, as she was Gay and had no relations in this country, there was a great deal of trouble over the release of the body.
I don't suppose that made much difference to her, but it was pretty hard on some of those who were close to her. There were a few more tears than normal at such occasions perhaps. It is hard to measure sorrow.
The service was Wiccan with a lot of Dianic symbolism. About half of those in attendance were not Pagan so it wasn't a complex ritual and I don't believe anyone actually noticed the Dieties being invoked. We all shared memories of our departed friend, many of which had to do with role-playing gaming, while we all silently noted the incursion of grey hair on one another's heads. The Priestess tied the feathers we each held to a length of twine and we draped the result upon the boughs of the pear tree in the yard.
When it was all over we promised to get together again, but few actually exchanged phone numbers. Such is always the way, I suppose. We feel the cold breath of time upon our necks and we want to reach out to one another, but too many years have passed and we fear we have nothing left in common.
We all shared food and drink in a communion far older than Christianity. Then, after a while, we all got into our cars and went our separate ways; all the Lost Boys chilled by the shadow of Winter.
And so it goes.
I don't suppose that made much difference to her, but it was pretty hard on some of those who were close to her. There were a few more tears than normal at such occasions perhaps. It is hard to measure sorrow.
The service was Wiccan with a lot of Dianic symbolism. About half of those in attendance were not Pagan so it wasn't a complex ritual and I don't believe anyone actually noticed the Dieties being invoked. We all shared memories of our departed friend, many of which had to do with role-playing gaming, while we all silently noted the incursion of grey hair on one another's heads. The Priestess tied the feathers we each held to a length of twine and we draped the result upon the boughs of the pear tree in the yard.
When it was all over we promised to get together again, but few actually exchanged phone numbers. Such is always the way, I suppose. We feel the cold breath of time upon our necks and we want to reach out to one another, but too many years have passed and we fear we have nothing left in common.
We all shared food and drink in a communion far older than Christianity. Then, after a while, we all got into our cars and went our separate ways; all the Lost Boys chilled by the shadow of Winter.
And so it goes.
Having largely left Neverland more than a decade ago, I find I cannot go back; what was is gone, and nothing else has taken its place. I wish I had known her better outside that context, for she was an amazing person, but that, too, is beyond reach. Perhaps it always was.
ReplyDelete