Friends...

He turned, and I was surprised to see a broad smile adorn his face. Behind him, his mother sat, left hand on her walking stick, sobbing gently into her handkerchief. The woman sitting beside her had her arm around her, but it was clear that the grief was too raw, too recent, too intense. There would be no comfort taken for a while yet. Behind him, on the left as you walked into the living room, stood the coffin. He shook my hand, thanked me for coming, and brought me across to the wooden box that contained his father."Eddie", he said, "This is Bob Sexton. He was a great man. I wish you had known him."

Two days later, I stood at the back of St. Benedict's Church in Tallaght, a church that is nestled quietly in a working class housing estate. It is a prefabricated building, lacking the stained glass windows found in churches in richer, more established areas. It was probably intended as a temporary place of worship, before somebody got distracted, and the community and its church were moved down the priority list until they were forgotten. It was a freezing cold november morning, and, as we huddled down into the collars of our coats outside, the wind went through us like ghosts.

Bob was a remarkable man. The guard of honour that lined up outside the church was proof of that. All were young men, all needed to be elsewhere that morning, in work, looking for work, minding kids, whatever. Yet, here they were, lined up, hurls in hand, the blue and white jersey of St. Anne's draped over their shoulders, a look of fierce pride on their faces. Bob had played minor hurling for Kilkenny, and, when life and circumstances had brought him to live in Tallaght in the 1970's, he had dedicated himself to the community, and to the sport he loved.

We stood at the back of the church as there was no-where to sit. Funerals are difficult occasions, but there was a definite sense of pride in that room. All around me stood old men come to pay their respects. They said their prayers with solemn gravity, and whispered and smiled like naughty schoolboys as they exchanged memories. At their age, they were used to funerals and they knew it was better to smile and remember the good times then let grief overcome them. "He was a tough man, he spoke the truth", one said. "Hands as big as shovels",said another, before adding "as straight as a die."

The priest began the mass, and the congregation murmured the responses to the prayers in quiet unison. Then, I saw my friend rise from the front row, where he sat, comforting his mother, and walk to the pulpit. Twenty years of healthy living were clear in his sharp physique. As he raised his head to look out upon all those people who had come to mourn his father, that broad smile once again creased his face. "This is no time for tears", he said . "My dad would hate that. This is a time to remember a great man." He told stories about growing up with his brothers and sisters, about how his dad was a milkman for twenty two years, about how he used to send his sons out on freezing cold mornings to collect the milk money with "ready brek hands",rubbed raw by Bob's giant callused paws. All around me, people laughed, smiled, and whispered stories to each other. I looked at my friend and I realized that I may never have met Bob Sexton, but I knew him in his son.

And then, the moment came to say goodbye. The smile still on his face he looked at his father's coffin, and he spoke to him. "So, Bob..." The words stuck in his throat. The eyes behind his glasses filled up. He dropped his head, diverting his gaze from the gathered crowd. I knew it would have been easy for him to break down and cry. Easy and natural. But I also knew his mother was watching, his brothers, his sisters, his wife, his children. And I knew, he would not break down, would not add to their distress.

He gathered himself, raised his head, smiled, and said goodbye to his father. The church filled with a round of applause for the great Bob Sexton and for his legacy. Moments later, my friend and his brothers carried their father out of the church. As they did so, 'The Rose of Mooncoin' was sung quietly, gently, reverently, by all of those people in the church who knew the meaning of that song to any proud Kilkenny man. I watched my friend as he mouthed the words, and I realized I learned a lesson that day. That is what friendship is - setting examples for each other and feeling pride in each other. I never felt more proud then I did at that moment in that church as those words floated all around, like a gentle flurry of snow on Christmas morning.