Raise glasses, rest ghosts.

Death brings us together. We shelter in the traditions and trappings of the funeral, the wake.
Raise glasses, rest ghosts.

We have filled the parlour with cut flowers, blind to their symbolism, or uncaring. They are bold but fleeting. They no longer stir our fears.

We have stripped the upper floors to bare bones. If naked windows spill their stories, if there is anything left to uncover, any secrets in corners where moth casts gather, they evade us.

There is, by necessity and custom, the empty chair. Those that are gathered take up their allotted places, play out roles that have long been assumed.

It is right and proper that it should fall to the youngest in this company to read the required words. The eldest sits silent, head bent.

Pass the bottle again. Remember our dead. We will remain here until we have fulfilled our obligations.