When it’s gone, it’s gone.

In the midst of life we are in life.

We were walking away from a funeral. In those days, they still appeared to be occasions; people didn’t go around dying everyday, did they?

So there was my father and myself caught up in some post cremation examination of our existential selves. The old man had little truck with such wasteful thoughts.

“It just goes to show, ” I may have said.

“What?” He most probably replied.

I knew this to be an invitation. It was an offer for me to test my wild philosophies against his nine to five realities. I had fallen into this trap before.

“Life’s short and like a closing down sale.”

“What are you talking about now?”

“When it’s gone, it’s gone.”

He took a moment to consider his response and then allowed himself a snort of appreciation.

For the rest of the afternoon, we would share some pints, some memories, some moments.

The next big funeral that I remember was the one that I went to without him. He had been put out on the clearance line and had been snapped up.