when they carried him past old ho's they'd beat the drum louder so he'd know they were passing and he'd pull himself to the window to have a last sight of the boy. the funeral crowd wind its way along the last village roads. They'd appear to me as the knights on their horses, one by one they'd bid him farewell and brush strokes of sorrows onto my personal sky. Dad's words would be ringing in my ears again. when i bid my final farewell to an unforgettable friend, only then will i understand what memory and a longing for the past really is. it seemed to me i was not the only one who was imagining this scenario because many burst into tears when the worried look on the herbalist's face disappeared. but they were crying because they were overjoyed. it's odd, but you only cry most wholeheartedly when you're happy.