It’s a big choice as a funeral song
for a 16-year-old.
His coffin strutted down the aisle
in my mind’s eye
as me and my mates stood
in borrowed suits not fully grasping
how small the small talk would be at the wake.
Acne does not belong in a crematorium.
I have a memory of his dad trying
to make us laugh and keep us comfortable
around an ocean of ghostly relatives
while his legs kicked below the surface.
The first time my son ran through the living room
and bumped his head on the coffee table
to the sound of a traffic collision,
I was prepared to never leave the house again.

Carl Burkitt 2026