The funeral was held in the chapel of one of the larger, more established funeral homes in the city. It was a well-lit room, with pews along both sides of a central aisle. The biologist in me estimated capacity at 100-120 persons. The closed coffin lay on the bier at the front of the room, surrounded by vases of flowers, most standing on small Corinthian pillars.

A color photo of my aunt and her husband stood on a stand on the left.

The room was bright, and sober. A small stained glass window, of flowers winding upward, was immediately behind and above the coffin.

You could tell it was lit from behind by a fluorescent light. It looked sterile and artificial, a price we pay, I assume, for efficiency. Fortunately for me, it appears that when my time comes, the window behind my casket will be illuminated by natural sunlight.

The coffin was of burnished metal, somewhere between the color of pearls and stainless steel. Trimmed with golden handles. The corners were adorned with golden wings that swept upwards, looking more ancient Egyptian than Christian.

We had come what I thought was incredibly early. But my aunt was active in her church, and my folks had ended up in the back of the room at her husband's funeral. They did not want that to happen at hers. And we were not the first ones here. The usher led us up to the right, the second pew behind the reserved pews. One of my father's brothers and a sister ended up in the pew in front of us, along with cousins I had not seen for decades. (Although I had shared postings on our great-grandmother with one on a genealogy site.)

Introductions and handshakes were quietly made.

As the time came near, nine strapping young men came out from the doorway up front, and took their places in the two reserved pews.

The pallbearers. Most were grandsons, as near as I could tell by their names. But all strangers to me. A position of honor I have only held once, but that was strangely a relief. When you're a pallbearer, you have duties and responsibilities. You have something to do.

Then the immediate family filed out. Along with one of my aunts, who had decided on joining the kinfolk in the private room. To the right at the front of the chapel was an alcove, a recessed nook for the privacy of the immediate family. With a curtain that could be drawn to further protect them from view. Her sons, daughters and grandchildren silently moved into those seats.

The Minister for the service was a young woman. Clearly reading from a prepared, standardized text. I was not impressed. It was too impersonal, could have been spoken for almost anyone.

Then, in her closing, she broke from her notes and spoke about my aunt, and yes, some more about my uncle. They had been married for 63 years, so it is hard to talk of one without mentioning the other. She mentioned anecdotes from the family, and from her own memories.

The time Arline broke her ankle hiking back from fishing, because she would not quit until it was legally too dark. About the Texans she exchanged Christmas cards with each year, just because they met on one fishing trip.

By the time she was done, I liked the minister quite a bit.

As she spoke, she was constantly turning to the secluded family, and then back to the rest of the mourners. The more I see of this practice of setting the immediate family off to the side, the less I like it.

At the conclusion of the memorial, the ushers went to the back while the staff opened the casket one last time. And, starting from the back, the ushers directed mourners to file forward to pay their last respects, before turning left and leaving the building.

Until one, small, old woman slowly came forward.

Another of my aunts, an elder sister of the deceased. Looking so much like her mother. She hesitated only briefly, then broke from the line to turn right to the private alcove. To give her condolences to the family. To attend to those still living, over those who are gone.

Good for her.

And all the following mourners followed suit.When our turn came, my cousins had to introduce themselves to us. It had been so long, I could no longer tell which was which. Neither could they. One young grandson responsibly took his place along the rail to meet and greet mourners.

The Minister waited by the doorway, as they are aught to do, to greet mourners as they passed outside. But now she was holding her young baby.

Holding new life, new hope, in a place that is usually so full of death and loss was a wonderful symbolism. Unintended, I'm sure.

But I like her even more now.