The once animated photogenic face lies ashen, motionless in the casket, surrounded by symbols of a well lived life; an American flag is in the corner, a rosary in his hands and a Yankee’s jersey. The individual in the casket, the people gathered round and specific pictures on the easels are what make this different from all the other wakes in all the other funeral homes across our country. For those caught up in their grief, it is unique. For those who have been fortunate and have not been visiting too many funeral homes in the recent past, it is unique.

The pictures show a life well lived, with children and grandchildren at births and weddings. They show good times on a boat or at a hunting club. They show thin you men, little older than boys in Vietnam. Next to the pictures are medals earned.

While the war ended some forty years ago, it has ranged on inside many of our vets, and while the brief illness may have been referred to as organ failure by others, the organs were most likely victims of the ongoing conflict.

I look at the mourners, hard working men and women, cops, nurses, and teachers. I look at the friends who have shown up, burly men with bulging muscles, tattoos, Fu Manchu moustaches and pony tails. Perhaps they are friends from the VFW. Perhaps the Vietnam War rages on in some of them as well.

The ex-wife, whom everyone loves and was so sad when they split up is there with a male friend. The nephew’s ex-girlfriend, whom no one could understand why they broke up, they were so perfect together, is heartily hugged by all the relatives as the nephew stands by awkwardly. A woman that no one seems to know, who was a close friend for several years appears briefly, in deep grief.

We all have our own ways of mourning. Our grief can be complicated, ambiguous, disenfranchised, and it takes place against the backdrop of our lives. One friend has had a major court battle which has disrupted years of his life, take a very positive turn. I sit there quietly, amidst great turmoil in my work life.

I’m a geek. I’m normally connected to social media 24/7. Out of respect for the family, I leave my Google Glass in the car. I set my two cellphones and my smartwatch to vibrate. I know there will be emails for me, and messages on social media about an ex-employee hurtling down a self-destructive road.

A Catholic Deacon conducts a brief service for the deceased. Afterwards, I head home, listen to a few hymns and other songs of remembrance, and think happier aspects of my work, what to teach young kids about technology and how to program my smartwatch.