In Loving Memory

We are gathered here today to say goodbye to someone we once knew,

someone we didn’t realise we had lost until it’s too late.

She was with us in our earliest days,

quiet but constant.

Her presence was never demanding or loud.

No, she lived peacefully in the background,

in the way we looked at the world with wide eyes and open hearts;

in ways we laughed without caution,

trusted without reason,

and dreamed without limits.

She had a way of making even the most ordinary things feel extraordinary–

a crack of sunlight on the wall,

the rhythm of rain against a window,

muddy shoes,

tangled hair,

hands sticky with sugar.

These were some of her favourite things.

She taught us that true happiness wasn’t something we had to chase,

but something we carried inside us,

something we were

before we were told otherwise.

And maybe that’s why her absence hurts us so deeply.

Because it wasn’t a loud goodbye.

She didn’t leave at once.

She faded quietly,

with ever fear we learned,

with every wall we built,

with every time we were told to be careful,

to be practical,

to be less.

I think of her now when life feels heavy.

When we second-guess ourselves,

when we scroll endlessly instead of dream,

when we forget how to play, to wonder, to believe.

And yet, in the words of Marcus Aurelius:

“The happiness of your life depends upon the quality of your thoughts.”

She knew that.

She lived that.

Her thoughts were light,

gentle,

filled with possibility,

and in her presence,

the world felt safe.

But perhaps she is not entirely gone.

Perhaps she waits quietly in the corners of our hearts­–

in moments where we choose wonder over fear,

softness over bitterness,

hope over resignation. 

So, we gather here today to lay our innocence to rest.

May she live on through our children,

our grandchildren,

and many generations to come.