The kids are in town for a funeral/

So pack the car and dry your eyes

I know they got plenty of young blood left in 'em/

And plenty nights under pink skies

I discovered the lyrics to this song around the time when a few of us decided to travel to a small town near Paris

A final gesture to honor A.'s life brought us to Coulommiers on a beautiful October day. There we were, children who had grown up, each silently carrying our own version of the person who was now part of our past.

I wanted to believe that the particularly sunny and serene day was meant to remind us of A.'s broad smile—that warm and sincere smile that made you feel listened to and understood.

The gentle sun and clear sky seemed to contradict the numbness in our hearts, as if nature itself wanted to comfort us, to tell us that life is not only about partings, but also about everything that was beautiful before them.

All the contrasts of the funeral seemed to show this strange mixture of sweet and bitter.

We reached the top of the hill in the cemetery where we said goodbye to A., and I was surprised by the view. Looking down on the plain stretching into the distance against a blue horizon forces you to think about human existence as a whole. But not in the moment, perhaps in time. In the moment, those who are grieving cannot look up. They stare into space, rocked by pain and unanswered questions.

There is no answer for the distance A. took a long time ago. And it's hard to come to terms with the fact that you couldn't stop it. And you think that he must have gotten tired after a long battle with illness and being dependent on a machine that prolonged his life every three days. But these are just assumptions because you don't really know what they meant to him. Trying to decipher the meaning behind these things is too cruel. A. left us no translation for his feelings, only a sad realization that he had settled his accounts with life on his own terms.

Unanswered questions that you have to accept as they are—this is what we are told at the funeral. Because the alternative is a path that leads to judgment.

I look at the flowers gathered by those who came to say goodbye, just like us. They are all placed on the green, fresh grass. I am struck by their multicolored beauty in the context of a soul that has died without hope.

I left without feeling it is a closed a chapter, because it had closed long ago, in silence. And yet that moment marked the fact that everything was becoming final.

We went to Paris not to distract ourselves from a sad event but to face life head-on. Because there are still many nights to live under the pink sky. The next morning, we were awakened by F.'s voicemail, full of humor and energy for a French breakfast:

"Good morning, kids! Aren't you in the mood for some boulangerie?

We wandered more than we had planned through the streets of a metropolis blocked under the ideaParis respire”.

And maybe that's exactly what life is after a goodbye: moving forward with a slightly heavier heart, but our eyes still open to the pink skies of the mornings that await us. Knowing that loss doesn't cancel out joy, but makes it more precious. And that, despite all the endings, life continues to breathe.