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From my position in the line I could just about see the top of his head, like a wax egg nestled safely in the soft silk of the coffins lining. The darkened room was filled with mourners and their soft sounds of shuffling sadness.
As I edged closer, his corpse came into full view. Even in death he looked resplendent. His face in deathly repose looked: serene, soft, unlined, kind.
My turn arrived; I placed my hand on his forehead, leaving it there for a count of R.I.P.
Tolly O'Donnell, the back-bone of our small community was dead. Only after I had touched his cold corpse did I actually believe it.
His extreme age didn't lessen the impact of his loss. Many of us, myself included, owed him our lives.
......
My memory of that black October night is dimmed with time. But what I know for sure is this: had Tolly O'Donnell not kicked down the door, all us children would have perished in the flames that devoured the old orphanage.
......
His funeral party continued in the Town Hall, where the drink flowed along with the eulogies and laughter. Brenda Gallagher, a striking young woman, recalled an exchange in the bar just 3 weeks before his death: "Tolly O'Donnell, aren't you still a fine figure of a fella – I want your body," she shouted over in jest. His response was as sharp as his mind, "OK Brenda – I'll tell the undertaker to give it to ya."
He was the local Hero who touched the lives of many, and as I watched them celebrate his life, I realised how very alone I was.
Would they believe me if I told of how Tolly touched me?
