I looked up the words to the poem from Four Weddings and a Funeral. We only had 2 weddings recently. Today we sat at Bert and Roberta's home and assembled pictures to illustrate a man's life. Words don't seem to do it. Two dimensional images don't do it either. The memories that the words and images summon up in us is what we have. It is the only thing of depth. And time seems to elevate some to sainthood, except in Bert's case. He seemed to go out on top of his game. He was liked by most, loved by many and adored by some. And those that adored him have all their own reasons and stories to go with their feelings. And when we add up the dollar bill bow-ties, the wooden birds, the time he put into the things that he created, there seems to be so many things that everyone that knew him were given the opportunity to share with him ...and each other.

When I asked for it, he gave me his daughter's hand, and all the other important parts. Without asking, he always told me he loved me. It made it easier, as a man, to tell him the same.

'Funeral Blues'

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

-- W.H. Auden