As funerals went, it wasn’t exactly the event of the year. It was a short, simple service at St Francis Church in the city, and then on to the cemetery. There weren’t many of us — Trent and his colleague Jossie, with an old gentleman she introduced as her grandfather; Alison in her school uniform keeping very close to Leo; a Polish woman Trent said was Professor Nadia Godlewski from Melbourne University; and two friends of the deceased, Bett and Stu. And of course me, wondering how I got to be there, on such a dreary Melbourne day, watching as a stranger’s coffin was lowered into the ground.
Then suddenly, as the sun broke through and outlined the scene in gold, a clear, strong contralto voice broke into song behind me. I could tell it was a prayer. It began softly, reverently, and then i
