"I am the Resurrection and the Life". Heads turn as the coffin enters the church, which is bright with daffodils ("they were her favourites"). The organ plays something quiet and respectful. People murmur safe little cliches; "a good innings"; "merciful release". After all, ninety-five is a good age.
The service gets under way. A son reads a lesson; a friend give a eulogy; a small great-grandson plays a tune on a recorder. And all the while, the grey heads turn, giving each other covert looks, and the unspoken question hangs in the air. Who will be next? Will it be me? You? The brave cousin with her cancer?
Two weeks later, some of the same people gather for another funeral. There is weeping; more whipers: "hit and run"; "the driver never stopped"; "an only child, too".
The small white coffin is carried down the aisle. The little boy has his recorder beside him; he never went anywhere without it.
No-one wonders who will be next.
(I honestly don't know what got into me. It's my birthday, too!)