The sun was just heading into the final stretch of the day when we gathered up our stuff and began setting up for the memorial party this past Sunday.

A spread of food that made the tables groan, a pile of beverages brought by friends and guests, a fire off in one corner where people could gather to sing or tell stories, benches and chairs set around for comfort and companionship.  

Their Majesties let us take the thrones out of their throne tent and we set up a sort of shrine there.  His portrait, his sword.  His armor, helm, tabard, chain, and belt all displayed on a stand.  His banner, with the new Augmentation of Arms.  A glass before the portrait with a bit of his scotch in it.

As guests came into the area, they were first confronted by a table staffed by his Squires.  They were asked to choose a beverage and raise a glass with Boss before they entered the party.  There was scotch, rum, water, green iced tea, two kinds of soda, and that blue/green gatorade.  Just a little splash in a one-use tiny plastic tasting cup.  

Most seemed to grok the ritual right off, some required a little explaining, and some didn't seem to get it at all.  That's all good, it was there for those who needed it.  

Darkness fell, torches were lit.  Food and drink was served.  People mingled, laughed, cried, flirted, sang, talked, hugged...  people were people together.  They drifted over to the shrine and stood before it, looking.  Watching.  Standing vigil with the armor and the pictures and the accessories that marked a man's life.  

Just when the emptiness left by his absence became too much, they turned back into the crowd and there were arms to hug and shoulders to lean on, kind whispers of support and love.

We worked.  We, his people, did the kind of things he'd taught us to do by his own example.  We mingled and greeted people.  We made sure of their comfort and welcome.  We poured drinks, offered food, answered questions, made introductions, we watched over the Ladies.  We watched over each other.  

Hundreds came through that night. We saw people we haven't seen in years. I don't think anybody kept count.  I don't think anybody could.

The crowds thinned slightly an hour or so after midnight.  We began to pick up, extinguish the torches, put out the fire, dismantle the shrine, pack up the remaining food and drink.  We walked back to our camp and changed out of our good clothes.

Some of us went to bed then.  Some sat up a bit longer and enjoyed the luxury of being off our feet by passing a bottle of really really good scotch.  We talked and laughed some, then.  

Those of us who are his students are finding it challenging to mourn him sometimes.  We're ready to set aside our immediate emotions to take care of the others who loved him.  Sometimes we end up neglecting ourselves and each other in this process.  Sometimes we're less patient with each other than we want to be, because we're frightened and lonely and sensitive.  

It's almost a year now.  Since he left us after a horrible stupid accident.  It doesn't hurt any less.  It gets harder to be strong for others.  It gets harder to remember patience and kindness for those we see every day.  

So, when it gets too hard we take a break.  We step back, regroup, think carefully, plan and choose to be kind and thoughtful.  We choose our actions and we consider the consequences and then we move forward.  

I'm not sure quite how yet, but I know we'll figure it out.  

Wish you could have been there, Sir, it was one hell of a party.