I was at an aunt's funeral, this past week, in the town of Bishop Auckland (County Durham).
It was the first time I saw a coffin lowered into a grave.
It was also the first time in about a decade that I saw my Dad's older brother, and his step-son (whose mum had died).
It wasn't until the pair of them began to really show their grief (a hand to the dipped head, the body shaking to a silent beat), that I began to show any feeling - quietly, discreetly.
They live in a massive house, with a big labrador. They lost the mother and wife who brought their gorgeously uncouth triumvirate together.
The closeness of fathers and sons, and the implications of that - cuts right to the core of my being. 'Cuts' is the right word.
Listening, I learned stuff about my own Dad, and about the Dad that his older brother continues to be - both to a step-son, and to my Dad - however awkward that younger brother might seem to feel about that. [A garbled sentence, but I know what I mean.]
It is late.