still in Georgia

I'm teleworking from one of my sister's computers. We're trying to deal with death certificate submissions for insurance, financial institutions, and the federal government -- all of which usually need to be presented in person -- via phone, the internet, or post, if necessary.

I haven't cried. I know at least one Texas relative is scandalized by the lack of tears at the funeral service, but, as classist as this sounds, we were brought up not to cry in front of the enlisted personnel. Our backs were straight even as our throats clutched when the piper played the Battle Hymn of the Republic and Going Home. My voice deepened while I read my necessarily brief eulogy (in some military cemeteries, the graveside service -- which isn't actually graveside -- can only be 15 minutes long. At Beaufort (pronounced BU-fert) National Cemetery, we had a full half hour. Between the full honors which take about ten minutes (especially because our honor guard hadn't practiced folding the flag) with the full 21 gun salute (7 guns shot 3 times) and the truncated Episcopal service performed by one of Sis's colleagues, I had 3 minutes maximum to speak.)

I linked my Dad's life to the Parable of the Talents. A conversation with siderea helped me find the framing device. I also selected the bible readings because Mom didn't have any ideas besides "Not the 23rd Psalm. Your Dad and I never liked it."

This post is "bitty," I know. Organizing my thoughts around Dad's death is difficult.