I experienced the death of a closely related family member six months ago, when a cousin of mine passes away, aged twenty-six. It’d been Lupus. It started as a fever, and a month and a half later he was gone, so the shock was immense. For me, aside from being a first time, it was an awkward time, since I wasn’t at home (I was in Spain). It took a long time for it to sink in. Looking back, I find the contrast of reactions really interesting. He was buried and a stern mass was held, according to tradition, for my grandparents’ peace of mind more than anything. On the other hand, his friends and university colleagues emphasised again and again how that wasn’t the way he’d have liked to go. Drinks at the pub and a meal were more like it, and, surely, no mass or burial or mourning.