On 12th April 2014 my brother, four years my junior, died suddenly and unexpectedly.
This very apt piece was read out at his funeral:
Not, how did he die, but how did he live?
Not, what did he gain, but what did he give?
These are the units to measure the worth
Of a man as a man, regardless of birth.
Not what was his church, nor what was his creed?
But had he befriended those really in need?
Was he ever ready, with a word of good cheer,
To bring back a smile, to banish a tear?
Not what did the sketch in the newspaper say,
But how many were sorry when he passed away?
Anon
This last rose of autumn, decaying on its stem was in the garden at the Funeral Home. It symbolises a lot for me.
ordinarygoodness 