Death is Nothing at All

My Grandmother died. I am beside myself with grief. She meant so much to me, that old woman. So so so very much. I cannot even put into words how much I am going to miss her.

I have been asked to read at her funeral. She had written in her prayer book a poem she wanted read.

Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away in to the next room.
I am I, and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other, that we still are.
Call me by my old familiar name,
Speak to me in the easy way you used to.
Put no difference into your tone,

Wear no false air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed,
At the little jokes we always enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household name it ever was,
Let it be spoken without effort,
Without the ghost of a shadow in it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolute unbroken continuity.
What is death but a negligable accident?
Why should I be out of mind,
Because I am out of sight?

I am waiting for you, for an interval,
Somewhere very near,
Just around the corner.
All is well.
Nothing is past; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!

Henry Scott Holland 1847-1918

Canon of St Paul's Cathedral