After so very many years, one begins to notice that some emotions come easier than others. Anger and happiness, with the right mindset, can be found in almost anything. Joy, true joy, is rarer, though tends to stay with one a while longer.

Sorrow, on the other hand, is much more fleeting.

I suppose it has something to do with extended exposure. After all, there are only so many tragedies a pony can sit through before they become numb to them. Good comedies, on the other hand….

I’m rambling again, aren’t I? I’m sorry, it’s a terrible habit of mine. Forgive an old nag her quirks. Where was I?

That’s right.

I went to a funeral yesterday, and there were a lot of other ponies there.

Well, alright. In the interest of full disclosure it was, technically, a memorial service. Yes, yes, I know. One has the body there, one doesn’t. But they’ve always felt the same to me. It wasn't the first I'd been to and, barring unforeseen circumstances of considerable magnitude, won't be the last.

I suppose you’d think that sorrow would be fitting, no? Well it was, in a fashion.

Let me be clear with you: it was not at her passing. She was old, she was ill, and her death was no surprise to anyone. It's what ponies do. They are, in fact, exceedingly good at it. I've yet to meet a pony that, given a good century or so, won't have kicked the bucket. Don’t give me that look! I’d be more worried if ponies stopped dying, honestly. Canterlot is growing crowded enough as it is.

That’s better. A smile never hurt anypony.

Where was I?

Right, the service. I'd made my peace with her passing long ago. I suspect, however, that a lot of others hadn’t. “There are too many ponies here,” they all muttered under their breath. “She wouldn’t have wanted a crowd like this.” Putting aside the irony of several hundred ponies all telling themselves that everypony else were superfluous, I myself didn’t see a problem.

I don’t remember her ever saying anything of the sort.

I suppose it was the flowers, at first. She never could stand the use of the things as ornamentation. “Might as well have a vase of donuts,” she’d say, munching on a bunch of freshly-procured roses. And yet you could’ve confused the chapel for the Royal Canterlot Gardens with the amount of bouquets, posies and wreaths strewn around the place.

You see, the flowers weren’t for her.

And we stood around, talking about her life, and the talking wasn't for her, either. She'd have been bored to tears. Yes, she was brave. Courageous even, at times. I myself had been indebted to her several times over. But it gets to a point, where the last five ponies have all repeated the same sentiment that you have to wonder why they continue to come forward. “It’s important that we remember her,” they’d all say.

She’d have really hated that one.

And yet the list continued; the formal attire, the chamber music. A never-ending list of things she’d have hated done in the spirit of remembering her.

I found it difficult to process, at the time.

It was only after the service, when the guests all stood around drinking, talking, and laughing that I could appreciate it all for what it was. I didn’t stay. Places to be, I told them. People to see. Royal business.

I like to think they understood.

As I left, I imagined her sitting on a nearby cloud with that ineffable smile of hers, laughing at the silliness of it all. “I went to your funeral this morning,” I’d tell her. “There were a lot of ponies there.”

“That’s nice,” she’d respond, without missing a beat. “I hope they enjoyed it.”