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187 Reception. As we passed through the lobby of the church for the memorial service for Charlie, my neighbor’s father, a montage of photographs culled from his childhood, maturity, and old age greeted us. Its bracing centerpiece was a blow-up of the young man with his new wife, who spilled from his arms with unrestrained joy. Inside the sanctuary, friends and family packed into gleaming pews; the filing in of relatives alone took five minutes, they were so numerous, and there was a delay while folding chairs were set up for the overflow. The service itself was of the sort typical nowadays, a celebration of the life of the deceased. If there were domestic squabbles or career disappointments in Charlie’s story, they were not portrayed in the words we heard. If he knew despair, loneliness, or pain, if existence is suffering, the Buddha’s noble truth, then all that happened in the wings, behind heavy curtains. No body anchored the nave, no casket sleek and dark to brood on. A substantial reception followed in the rectory, where suntanned great-grandchildren sprawled on the uncomfortable couches, looking too robust and healthy to be corralled inside. After this affair for the benefit of the public crowd, we carpooled to an invited reception at Charlie’s house, where slivers of parmesan and smoked salmon were passed on silver trays. The widow never sat down, for she could find no place to do so 188 in a house spilling over with warm wishes, tears of love, and gratitude for Charlie’s abundant life. My own mood, I admit, was a comparative chagrin. Remarking on the profusion of guests with the woman next to me, who held a small plate of fruit she did not touch, we agreed that our own exits would provoke no such send-off. We had traveled too far from where we began, lost too much along the way, made too many disappointments and messes. No generations of family would crowd to the church; no friends from childhood would tell stories of our wit and gaiety. When our time came, there would be no grand hurrah. For some, the circle is broken. For some, life shrinks in time. ...

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