Is Every Funeral Also a Celebration

Lyrics

The wind off the ice has no name for gentle.
Just a scouring. A salt-sharp bite.
Here, in the interior of South Georgia.
I found your box. Tucked behind a stone, out of the worst of it.

A small tin box, worn at the corners.
Inside… not maps, not letters.
A plastic hospital wristband, the name faded to gray.
A single white pill, perfect, under a slip of cellophane.
A folded piece of paper… a good blood test result, circled in red pen.
Tokens of the times you didn't die.
Party Planner Pete. That's what they called you.
You, who stands beside the caskets. You, who coordinates the flowers and the quiet cars.

You arrange the somber rites.
You guide the grieving through the hardest room.
But here, you left the evidence of every close call.
Every breath you almost didn't get to take.
Is this the question you carried to the ice?
Is every funeral, Pete, also a celebration?
A quiet toast to the one who remains?

Down at Grytviken, they pour whisky on Shackleton's stone.
A toast for the Boss, who made it this far and no further.
Died right here in the harbor, 1922.
Is that a party? Or is it something else?
Did you stand there, Pete, with the others?
Thinking about this box of yours?
This catalog of narrow escapes. The tumor that was benign. The fever that broke just at dawn.

You arrange the somber rites.
You measure out the grief in hymn and eulogy.
And here, you left the proof of every small victory.
Every breath you fought for and you got to take.
Is this the question that drove you to the end of the world?
Is every funeral also a celebration?
A fierce, secret toast to the one who remains?

To live is to collect these tokens.
The scar, the clean scan, the phone call that wasn't the worst news.
We carry them inside. You just put yours in a box.
And you left it where the world runs out of land.
Where the penguins cry for their dead with a sharp little squawk.
And the wind just keeps on scouring.

I'm closing the lid now, Pete.
On your little party for one.
Your celebration of not being the one in the box.
Not yet.
Is it?
Is it?