the tune without the words

 Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

A nephew died last week. The viewing was two days ago; the funeral was yesterday. Initially, I hadn't felt much over the death, but as the family gathered to pay last respects, I found myself mourning Daniel harder.

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I'll bet hundreds of people came out for the viewing. The line went on for hours. There were relatives from Croatia and Ecuador that came; friends from France and Switzerland; coworkers who spoke only Spanish; classmates and workmates; family on top of family. In addition to mourning Daniel, I wept for the meaning of so many people taking time and effort to offer support for the survivors of the young man they knew. There will not be so many at my funeral. Perhaps that is as it should be.

I'd recently been reminded of this Emily Dickinson poem in a video, and thought to myself at the funeral, "Hope is the thing with feathers", and I have not been able to keep long from tears since. It will not always be like this. For now, though, I am not ashamed that I am so moved.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.