This entry at At My Knits End about the funeral of John Glick (the writer's brother-in-law, and one of the musicians killed in Chicago in July) made me remember my grandmother's funeral.

I had been very anxious about it, and worried that I would break down when I went up to see her body, but I steeled myself and took my mother's arm, and we walked up. It was bittersweet, of course, and sad, but it wasn't awful because, as I said to my mother, "She isn't there!" It was my grandmother's body, but it wasn't my grandmother. She lives on, still, in my memories and in my heart.

Just something I thought of today.