In the South, a funeral isn’t just a formality. It’s a moment when music becomes memory, and memory becomes something you can hum for the rest of your life. —Tom Daniel
My memory puts on a coat of gray,
A keening tweed that moans just like a choir,
A dirge-like gabardine that knows the way
Of tears, a worsted wool, cloth of a crier.
My keening tweed—that moans just like a choir,
Weighing me down in sorrow—brings relief
With tears. A worsted wool—cloth of the crier
Made with the flow of tears—holds all our grief,
Weighing me down in sorrow. Pain’s relief
Is cadence, slow and marching. Snare and drum,
Made with the taps of tears, rattles our grief.
The music moves. Memory’s a lasting hum—
A cadence, slowly marching snare, the drum
Of mourners, fiddler at the piney box.
Music moves memory, makes a lasting hum,
A crier’s melody that rocks and knocks.
The mourners, fiddler at the piney box,
and memory put on their coats of gray,
The crier’s melody, sweet tears and knocks,
A dirge-like gabardine that shows the way.
So evocative of those final moments before we lowered her down to rest at Forest Lawn Cemetery in Houston.
Very, very powerful, Maura.
Very nice. I might have to put this to music.
The Old Hall is one of the sweetest yet haunting tunes the Abbeville released. I never get tired of listening to it.
I want Eve Maria by Franz Schubert played often at my funeral. Also, I want someone to play “If Heaven ain’t a lot like Dixie”