The thing I most look forward to, is looking back with you
how we did the things we talk about, and of the things we’re gonna do

Remembering a time, when goodnight turned off different lights
and spending time together, meant wasting time on flights

When the years we’ve spent together, are more than those we spent apart
when the best years of our lives are now, and not just about to start

When this poem's a  distant memory, just a record of the past
of how we found our soul mates, finally, at last.

You tell me bout this guy you know
that's gentle kind and true
That has given you new life
banished all that made you blue

You tell me that he's handsome
that you love the way he smiles
That he's touched your very soul
bridged a gap of many miles

You tell me that you think of him
from time to time throughout the day
That you're filled with a such a yearning
wishing he wasn't far away.

And when you tell me of your plan
to surprise him with a trip
I feel that old familiar pain
of a heart about to rip

You're gonna just get on a plane
and turn up at his door
to see the look upon his face
and watch his jaw drop to the floor

Are you really that insensitive
thoughtless, even blind
To boast about some other guy
while leaving me behind

Perhaps I should have spoken up
and told you how I feel
Maybe then you'd skip the fantasy
and stick with something real

But your probably there already
I should have said all this before
and told you I'm in love with you...
One second, someones at the door...

There’s a funeral across the road today.

Despite the freezing temperatures and impending storm, the car park is full. Friends and family fill the church to say a last goodbye to their lost loved one. At the end, the church bells toll, mournfully. The honour guard of veterans file out and line up behind the hearse, saluting as the casket is brought out.

It never ceases to make me think how that little wooden box is smaller than you would expect it to be. It never seems big enough.

I always look at the coffins and think, “I’m sure he was taller than that.”

But the real discrepancy is not in the stature of the man compared to the size of the coffin, but of the life of the one being carried within it.

Does it really come down to this?

One man’s lifetime of love and adventures, more than most judging by the honour guard, the average age and the number of mourners. Does it all it come down to wooden box that seems too small?

But then I realise something I hadn’t thought of until I sat down to write this.

The measure of this man, the measure of his life, isn’t to be found within that box or even reflected by its size. His life can be measured by those that came to say goodbye. By the sorrow on their faces for the loss of their friend. By the honour guard, standing proud and straight and stronger than their years, to escort their comrade from this world to the next.

And as the snow begins to fall, I can’t help but think, who will be there to measure my life for all to see?