The memorial.

Danny's memorial was packed out.  The pastor made mention of the fact that most services she officiates are rarely as well attended.  She said it was 'a testament that he was loved by many'.  She also joked that she was glad not all of Danny's 1000 plus social media-connected friends decided to show up as it could have been a fire hazard.

I stood in the crowd at the back of the hall; many of us were spilling out onto the pavement as there was no more room inside.  I didn't mind standing even though the service lasted for two and a half hours and I had to continually press myself up against the wall so that folk needing the loo could squeeze by me.

I hadn't actually been to a memorial since my grandmother died in 1997.  Hers was hijacked by my JW Aunt who sang a creaky song about her mother having accepted Jehova into her heart while on her deathbed (and suffering the ravages of Alzheimer's).  Grandma was an Irish Catholic and remained so her whole life.  Aunt Babe stormed out in a huff.

Friends and family spoke so thoughtfully and emotionally about Dan.  I felt lucky to have been able to hear their stories.  We heard how Dan was generous with his time and his talents, mentoring film students at a local college on his own dime.  One friend spoke of how Dan came and lived with him while he was severely incapacitated by a bad break-up.  For six months, Dan was a 'surrogate Dad' to his buddy's children.

Weeks before he died, Dan had just gotten his 'dream job' editing film.  And he was in a loving relationship with a woman described as 'his angel'.  He was the happiest he'd ever been.  It's good to know that when he died he was well, emotionally.  Would that his physical health could have been equally solid.

It's hard to imagine that he's gone.  The pastor said 'it was his time', but I can't help feeling that Danny had been cheated out of a few more good years, at least.   

Dan the Man.