Funeral Week

A long week spent taking turns overnighting at wakes.

Sometimes, there were no words of comfort to be spoken. Helpless to address the grief but unwilling that it should be be the sole companion of the bereaved, we sat and talked through the night. And there were stories: stories of Chinese schools, of the ill-disciplined students of prestigious schools, of Chinese teachers, of the optimal number of children in a family, of living abroad, of Cambodian history, of the ARPC Golden Group, of the foundational principles of martial arts and yoga, of Yuk Yee's egg-swapping illustration that explained the relationship between the law and sin, of Swiss dams and Dutch boys, of social osmosis and dissecting the question "Where are you from?"

After the last one, we stumbled home ashen-faced. The darkness was cool from the day's rain. With the last dredges of remnant strength, chucked some pizza into the oven, threw salad leaves, tomatoes and olives into a bowl, and sat outside in the quiet deepening night.

Then, did a faceplant into bed and did not move for many hours.

When we finally woke, the sun was streaming in the window. The sky was the colour of hope and new life. There was a good fry-up and a fresh pot of coffee. Pim-cotton henley dresses and soft pastel tees lazing about on the grass in the breeze.

But some realities grow harsher in the morning light.