Goodbye Tarzan

Who thought of putting the word 'fun' in funeral? you think as you mull over the programme. And how do you condense someone onto a double-sided A4 page? He was 'just' a friend, but he'd been your best friend. You scan the page for your opportunity.
One of the first to arrive, you take a pew, three rows back, to the right, seeking the shelter of the wall. You notice two knots in the wood just above your right shoulder; they're like your eyes, watching, but not seeing.
You gaze as the church seems to elasticize to accommodate the burgeoning crowd. A steady trickle of people flow in down the aisle, tears streaming down their face. The rain on the nearby window, explosive as a firecracker, is how you would like to cry.
You are unfamiliar with the church setting but follow the cues of those who've come to comfort and cry, though they've invaded your pew.
You join in the sombre hush that settles over the building as the oak coffin is carried in.

You were part of the woodwork of his life, present as the rings formed. You saw him grow tall and seemingly strong,
Why? Why didn't I see this coming? But you didn't. You didn't see how the invisible insidious rot consumed his vitality. The roots of your lives had been so intertwined that when he fell, it was impossible for you not to be uprooted too.

Open mic. Each step to the lecturn is the longest of your life; Ent-like lumbering. You present a bottle of Lift Plus and a Smashbrothers Gamecube game ­- homage to the countless hours that were spent in friendly rivalry; paintballs or pixels. You begin speaking and a landslide of stories cascade out - building ponga-branch forts, stick fighting on precarious ledges, rebuilding speakers and LAN parties, gaming for whole weekends! You smile as you mention the oak in Bertram's Reserve that was home to the tree swing, turning little boys into Tarzans.
"I wish you'd called me, man, I wish you'd called me."
You touch the head of the coffin where Peter lies, lingering for a moment. You leave the bottle and the game nestled in the bouquet of lilies, retreating back to the shelter of the wall.

As the funeral comes to a close, five people emerge to carry Peter out. Five people surround the coffin. Five. There's a gap. It needs to be filled. But you weren't asked.
What if the sixth person's just in the loo?
The family in the front row look around in anxious anticipation, obviously waiting for another person to fill the void. It is out of character for the family not to have organised this earlier; but what about today is normal?
You unintentionally catch his mother's eye and she silently pleads with you.
You can't do it, getting up once was hard enough. You try to quell the nagging voice in your head, Steven will do it, surely!
But you see Steven visibly shaking with sobs. They were brothers; but they were so much more than 'just' brothers.
His mother's eyes still have you pinned like an arrow to a target - bright blue flashes that ask, what would Peter have done for you?
The answer is not as amicable as she thinks, but it hits a bullseye. You unconsciously replace it with the now all-too-familiar question: what could I have done for him sooner?
You grasp the handle and shoulder Peter's girth.
The tender oak returns to the forest.
No more Tarzan.

RIP Peter Brooking 15.3.1989-3.6-2010