It was him, but he wasn’t there. It was like a waxwork, hollow and glassy. I thought that if anything touched it it would crumble away and there would be nothing inside. I could only look for a second, and only because I had to see it for myself. I would never have believed it otherwise. It was a strange mockery of the man, but not anything really like him. I had to walk out, and was glad my little sister only came to the funeral and not the viewing.

There isn’t a Santa Claus any more, Virginia.

We shuffled in, we sniffled during the hymns, and we laughed and cried — mostly cried — while he was eulogized. But it seemed such an empty spectacle. Words are insufficient for love, which is why we kiss or embrace to show it. But when you can’t reach out and touch that person any more, there isn’t anything you can say that can make up for the loss. Collective grief helps some, but it can also be overwhelming.

As I looked out at the hundreds and hundreds of people jamming pews that are rarely half-full on Sundays, I could see how much this man meant. He could get more people into a church than God — that has to be something. But unfortunately as with God, our prayers and words receive no audible answer. The uncertainty gnaws at us, so we band together and hope that someone out there is listening.

Funerals really are for the living and not the dead.