Let us now speak of brave men who lived their lives just as they would have it
*Ronald is with some cousin of Arthur’s. Percy’s there too--five is too young, she’d said somewhat hysterically, over and over, too young, too young--and, of course, the twins couldn’t come, the very idea is absurd, they'd blow up the floral arrangements and everyone knows it. But Charlie’s standing there next to Arthur, periodically blowing his nose, and Bill’s there too, solemn and gray-faced, his hand in hers. Both boys are in black armbands over their most subdued jumpers; she’d outright refused to buy them funeral clothes, over and over, too young, too young, and finally Bill had stopped protesting and here they are.
She’s another story, though. Molly doesn’t typically wear black--it’s harsh on a woman of her coloring, and she has never looked terribly sophisticated or had any real desire to. But the day before she’d gone to Madam Malkin’s Robes For All Occasions (All Occasions Means All Occasions, Even Burying Your Baby Brothers, she’d thought distantly as the measuring tape went around her swollen abdomen) and put down her gold and here she is, watching them put Gideon and Fabian in the ground and all she can find her way to think about is that it was an awful lot of expense for something she’ll only wear once. And then it occurs to her that it won’t be once, that the way things are going she couldn't have made a wiser investment, and then Bill is squeezing her hand very tightly because she’s making rather a lot of noise and people can hardly hear the eulogy.
They gather afterwards and she has made an awful lot of food and no one’s eating any of it. That’s been the one consistently recurring truth of the past few days, she realizes dully: she has made an awful lot of food, and no one’s eating any of it. Still, she knows the right thing to say, and says it dutifully, quietly, to each and every person who offers her condolences.*
Thank you for coming.
She’s another story, though. Molly doesn’t typically wear black--it’s harsh on a woman of her coloring, and she has never looked terribly sophisticated or had any real desire to. But the day before she’d gone to Madam Malkin’s Robes For All Occasions (All Occasions Means All Occasions, Even Burying Your Baby Brothers, she’d thought distantly as the measuring tape went around her swollen abdomen) and put down her gold and here she is, watching them put Gideon and Fabian in the ground and all she can find her way to think about is that it was an awful lot of expense for something she’ll only wear once. And then it occurs to her that it won’t be once, that the way things are going she couldn't have made a wiser investment, and then Bill is squeezing her hand very tightly because she’s making rather a lot of noise and people can hardly hear the eulogy.
They gather afterwards and she has made an awful lot of food and no one’s eating any of it. That’s been the one consistently recurring truth of the past few days, she realizes dully: she has made an awful lot of food, and no one’s eating any of it. Still, she knows the right thing to say, and says it dutifully, quietly, to each and every person who offers her condolences.*
Thank you for coming.