Our scribbling sister is burying her best friend today, and I think we’re all in a solemn and reflective mood because of it. When times are hard we try comfort one another as best we can, but we may not always have the words. Sometimes there simply are no words.  But we’re here nonetheless. I never met Kate but it’s obvious that she meant the world to Kang.

Anyway, I’ll be shutting up now and letting the words of a much better poet take over:

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 crêpe 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 for ever: 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 wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good

W.H. Auden