There is a lot of singing at funerals.

I went to a funeral on Tuesday. I never met the deceased or his widow.

We went because it was a family death, my husband’s cousin’s husband.

He was 46. That is too young to die, especially of a coronary embolism.

Everything I now know about the man, I learned at his funeral. He was born in Nairobi, his father owns a hotel in Mombasa, he went to Oxford. He used to be an alcoholic, but was sober for 16 years before he died.

He was married, had a son, was divorced and then moved to America where he got married again. He worked at a church.

People loved him.

Oh, and his name was Max.

I don’t know what he looked like (I don’t view the dead if I didn’t know them in life…it’s too voyeuristic.)

I enjoyed the funeral (is that bad to say?)

It was transcendently beautiful. The church was a gigantic stone edifice on 5th Ave in Manhattan. The choir wore ruffled collars, and they sang. Beautifully.

I was struck by how much the singing human voice marks our passages through time.

Babies are sung to at their baptisms.

We are sung to at every anniversary of our birth.

Weddings are full of beautiful music.

And certainly, funerals; there is a lot of singing at funerals.

It’s like our voices were trying to reach him, or accompany him, or at the very least, mark that this happened…that HE happened.