The siren had jolted him out of his paralysed state. Its shrill alert cut through the regular thrum of the city night and brought him face to face with a name. A small bronze plaque stares at him from the bench; names of faceless citizens, long forgotten whose will forever support the backs and arses of the living. He sat down to the side of the carving, slouched beneath the street lights.
He stared with unseeing eyes, out into the crowds, searching deep within himself for some cavity, some empty space where he could house his grief, a room to store his sadness so he could put it to one side for now and find a way to participate in a world that insisted in moving on regardless.
His family would be on the way to the memorial by now. They would stand together; his father, mother and the twins, united in grief. Would they expect him? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
They would make their way to the memorial grove house. When their turn came, a bald man with a hooked nose would take their ticket and solemnly guide them to a suitable location. They could usually tell by sight whether or not to begin denomination determination but the info from the Retribs should have filtered through by now anyway. A release form used to be required and had to be signed by a direct family member. This was not necessary anymore. His family would be guided to a room with a photo, his grandfather’s belongings, pension and a state crafted bronze memorial plaque, probably embedded into stone or destined for a bench.