Ode to Heraclitus

Six days back at Les Orangers, time enough to say good-bye to one life, to take a deep breath and watch the present become the past. Hey, if nothing ever changed there’d be no butterflies.

“All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another.”

-- Anatole France

For those of you who knew him (and thank you for the various messages of support), Papi died a happy and peaceful old man. I went back to France to celebrate his life, not to mourn his passing away. He himself made it very clear that he did not want to be mourned, banishing (in writing) black clothes and sad thoughts from his funeral. He asked us to read the French version of this poem during the service (a poem which was also read at a much more painful and untimely funeral almost three years ago). I suppose some words say it particularly eloquently.

Death is nothing at all

Death is nothing at all
I have only slipped away into the next room
I am I and you are you
whatever we were to each other
that we still are
call me by my old familiar name
speak to me in the easy way
which you always used
put no difference in your tone
wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow
laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together
pray smile, think of me, pray for me
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was
Let it be spoken without effort
without the trace of a shadow in it
Life means all that it ever meant
it is the same as it ever was
there is unbroken continuity
why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you
somewhere very near
just around the corner
All is well

The author of this particular poem is the source of some mystery. In France it is typically attributed to Charles Peguy, but it seems that in fact it was translated from an English poem by Henry Scott Holland (1847-1918), Canon of St Paul's Cathedral.