Joe awoke to bright sunlight. That meant he had slept. It also meant that he had to get up. He didn't want to. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think their would even be another day. He sighed deeply before rolling over on to his side and straining to get up. He grabbed his cane and hobbled to the bathroom, running his fingers over his chin. He needed a shave. He should shave, whether he needed it or not. He hoped he had a clean shirt to wear. He couldn't go to a funeral in these old gray flannel pajamas.

Joe tied his tie. You shouldn't wear a clip-on at funerals. It was in poor taste. He looked over himself. Not bad for an old man. His hair had gone short and gray long ago. "Has it really been so long?" he thought. He remembered being onstage, guitar slung low over his shoulder, holding it in a death grip as riffs flew out angrily as he saw himself in a camera's eye. Long black hair tumbling in curls over his shoulders; shirt open, unabashedly showing off his chest in all it's sweaty splendor. Tight leather pants encasing him. Joey over his shoulder behind his drum kit, thumping out the beats that Joe wailed over. Steven to his right, wearing enough jewelry to make him look like a one-man gypsy bazaar, scarves draped over his microphone as he howled into it while nubile girls bared their breasts to anyone who cared to look. He shot a look to Billie, who smiled. The boyssat next to her, trying to pretend they didn't notice they brunette with her shirt pulled up past her chin. Those were his boys all right. His thoughts were shattered by a knock at the door. And so was the illusion. An old man with short hair looked back at him. Yup, that was Joe Perry. no doubt about it.

    Joe made his way to the door. "I'm coming!" he called to whoever was behind the door. It opened with that familiar squeak. There was Tony in his Sunday best, long unruly curls pulledback into a tame ponytail. Just what he would have done at that age. Oh, to be thirty-nine again instead if this ripe, old seventy-five.

    "Are you ready, dad?" he asked. Joe let out sigh and smiled.

    "I guess." He wasn't ready for this funeral. Not now. Checking that his keys were in his pocket, he closed the door gently.

    Tony helped him down the stairs to the car. "Honestly dad, I'm afraid that you're gonna fall down these stairs one of these days and hurt yourself." "Bah!" Joe dismissed him. "I'm fine. It's no big deal. I'd like to see you get around so well when you get to my age." Tony let out a smile not unlike his father's "I hope I'm not as stubborn as you when I get to your age." He helped Joe into the passenger's seat of his Honda.

    "Where are the kids?" Joe asked. "I haven't seen them in ages." "They're with Jess. She had to pick up some more formula. Just in case. They'll be at..." he stopped short, rethinking his words. "They'll be there."

    He pulled slowly up to the funeral home. Everyone was there. Brad was sitting in a shady spot on a bench, near a rose bush. He was always the baby, looking damned good for seventy-three. Seventy-three, he laughed to himself. When he first album had been released. Could it really have been that long? And there were Joey and April, still holding hands and being lovey as ever even after all these years.

Tony looked at his father's face. He knew what that look meant. He missed Billie. Tony put his hand on Joe's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. The last year had been so hard. Every day he missed her more and more. He kept expecting her to come back from the hospital, hair grown back and body invigorated. She would come back and kiss him like she hadn't kissed him in forever and a day, like when he got back from touring, and would say "The tumor's gone Joe. I'll live another ten years at least." But the day never came. He hoped for that day until he kissed her one last time, then buried her in a flood of white lilies two days later. He lived in that house alone, now only occasionally dotted with the laughter of grandchildren. And now this. Taking his Billie was one thing, but now...

"Dad?" Tony said "We don't have to go. We can go back to the house and I'll say that you're having chest pains again. They'll understand." "I'll never forgive myself if I don't. I have to say goodbye."

    Joe opened the car door before Tony could open it for him, stepping out into the bright sunshine. He surveyed the place, hobbling over to Brad, sitting next to him. "Mr. Whitford?" "Mr. Perry, I presume?" They shook hands. "Oh give me a hug you old bastard," Brad said, draping his arms over Joe. It felt good. Joe guessed that he needed that.

    "God, can you believe this?" Brad asked. "Heh. I thought that between my heart attack and my blood pressure that I'd be the next to go." "Well, I don't think that any of us was willing to be the next up to bat, but,...here we are." "Come on," Brad said. "Let's go see Tom." The two old axemen snuck off into the graveyard, away from the mourning crowds that were weeping in a loud throng.

    Tom's grave was one of the easiest ones to find. It was a big, dark granite slab like many of the others, but this one was in the shape of a great bass guitar. His kids had thought that Tom would like it. Something funny and unusual. However, it was not the "Vacant" Tom had joked about, and it they didn't play "That Smell." They lowered him while Steven had sang a low mournful version of "In My Life." He couldn't sing as high at that age. But the effect was not lost on the mourners. It was one of the most beautiful things they had ever heard.

    The two stood next to Tom, thinking to themselves, recalling the funeral. They didn't want to bury another so soon. Tom had died only a year and a half ago. But it was peaceful, thankfully. Gone in his sleep overnight. "I think they should have put 'Tom Hambonelton' on it," Joe said finally. Brad laughed. "You're never gonna let that rest, are you?" "Never," Joe smiled. "Never." Brad shot him a smile, then sighed. "I miss Tom so much." "Ya never miss them until they're gone," Joe sighed. "I once heard someone say 'The sad thing about funerals is that you only say such nice things about the person after they're gone.' And I think that about does it."

"That about does it," chimed in another voice. Joey sat down next to them on the hard little bench. The three sat in a moment of contemplative silence. Joey stuck out his hand to Joe, who shook it. Their quiet hello.

    The three of them were hushed until Joey said. "I can't believe Steven's gone." It had been said. The other show was dropped and now they could truly talk.

"I didn't want to come this morning," Joe said. "I mean, ever since the accident I've still been trying to tell myelf that he's still alive and just playing horrible joke. And now..." "I didn't want to be here either. I wanted to pretend it didn't happen," Brad cut in. "But Liv is here from California, and all the grandkids have come...it's true."

    Joey's further thoughts were cut short by the ringing of church bells. They called the black-clothed masses inside. The three men rose slowly to their feet, each step bringing Joe to the inevitable acceptance that there in that church lay Steven- his brother. His light snuffed out, his aura of goodness and gone and entrapped in some wooden box. He didn't want to go. He wanted to run away as fast as he could on these old legs and sit in a corner like a child, hoping that if he never saw it that it would all go away. He looked at Joey. The expression on his face was understanding. He put his hand on Joe's shoulder. With all the happiness he could muster, Joe smiled.

    Teresa's service had been three days before. Chelsea and Taj thought that, with all due respect to their mother, that Steven's funeral would require a larger setting. To accommodate the large and extended Tyler family as well as assorted dear ones, well-wishers from various record companies and the few inoffensive members of the press that were allowed in. Teresa's service wasn't easy for anyone inolved. But Steven's…Steven's gave him a nervous, dreadful burning in his gut that he hadn't felt since the first time he went on stage. He proceeded in. The scent of flowers was overwhelming. The casket, tasteful and walnut (something Steven would have hated), was festooned with deep, fragrant red roses and white funeral lilies. Someone had sent a bouquet of pink roses tied with a black ribbon. Joe supposed they were from a fan. The light pink blooms set them apart from the somber potted plants and other solemn blossoms that had been sent despite requests for charitable donations. Joe hoped that some of these people had done both.

    The mourners slowly began to take their seats. Joe, Joey and Brad were ushered into seats in the second row from the front. These seats were for family. "Damned if we aren't family," Joe thought. "We spent fifty years with the man." Opposite them sat Liv, her head nestled in her husband's neck. God, she was still beautiful after all these years. Heh. It took a funeral to make her come back to Boston, eh? He shook off the thought. He shouldn't think like this. The poor girl. He put a supportive hand on her shoulder. She looked up, her tears rolling down her cheeks, falling on the soft fabric of her dress. She looked up at Joe and smiled, just like her father might have. She had her father's lips always, even as a small baby. While she had her mother's eye color, the look behind them was Steven's also. Bright eyes with a tiny spark dancing in each. She placed her hand on Joe's and rubbed it gently with her thumb. She had Steven's hands, large with long-boned fingers, but definitely transformed in her to something feminine and delicate. He smiled back before taking his aisle seat. A chubby cleric a smart yet grave black suit stepped up to the podium and began to speak.

    "Friends, family and mourners; we gather today to mourn the loss of Steven Victor Tyler. Steven was dear to many in this room, as a loving father, grandfather, band mate, and friend. There is no one here who has not been touched in some way by this dearly loved man. And we shall all miss him. Let us if we may take comfort in The Lord's Prayer: 'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want...'" They said it in almost disturbing unison. Joe did also. He might have been a priest. Thank goodness he was not. He didn't feel the words. This again was something that Steven would have hated. Such order, such sedateness in his final hours above ground. This should be a celebration! They should play music and dance happily, like at a wake. He wished to stop the prayer in its tracks and run for the doors, and find a copy of "All Over Now" and play it for them. "…and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Amen.'" The cleric smiled reservedly and began to eulogize. "All who knew Steven Tyler knew he was a good, sober man, who lived a good life. He was an earnest man..."

    "Bullshit!" Joe whispered fiercely. Brad began to smile from ear to ear. Liv bit her lip, much as Steve would do in that situation. Joey snorted and let out a big laugh, much to the surprise of their fellow mourners.

    The cleric seemed taken aback by the heckler in the audience. "Uhm...would you care to say a few words, sir?" he stuttered, with the slightest hint of challenge in his sober voice. Joe stood up slowly, making his way to the podium. He thought to himself as he walked up the little steps. What the hell would he, COULD he say about Steven? He looked out at the mourning crowd, dressed in black, sobbing into handkerchiefs and kleenex. Well, he could do much better than this paid penguin could.

    He said the first thing that came into his mind. "I'm not terribly good at speaking," he began. "Steven was way better at this than I am." A few notes of nervous laughter from the mourners. "I always said, 'I don't speak, I play the guitar.' But no song is sad enough to describe the loss we are all feeling. The loss of a father, a grandfather, a brother, and the best friend that I have ever known. I...I suppose I didn't tell him that enough. I don't know if anyone did. But we all knew it. We all were truly touched by Steven in some small way. He loved people. He loved his fans. He loved life.

    This set the crying on anew. The beauty of his own words were lost on Joe. He only spoke from his heart. He looked out into the crowd of people. Joey gave him a small hand gesture, pushing him to continue on with the eulogy.

    "When it's my time," he began again, "I bet when I get to the pearly gates and they read out the book of my life, I bet at least two weeks will be spent waiting for Steven. Joey and I were taking bets if he would be here on time. The only time he's punctual and I bet against it." Unreserved laughter followed. They all knew Steven's notorious lateness. "But that was the price you paid for front row seats to the Steven Tyler show. To hearing him laugh with everyone and tell the dumbest dirty jokes..." (He laughed at himself, remembering one of Steven's gems: what do you call a dog with short legs and steel balls? Sparky.) "But that's how he was. At each and every moment of his life, he was completely and undeniably Steven. Never anyone else, never what anyone else wanted him to be. Pure and unadulterated Steven Tyler in all his sweet, kind, astoundingly loud, brassy, arrogant, control freak glory. And I will miss him dearly." Joe choked up slightly, trying to force back the tears that were welling up behind his eyes. "He was seventy-seven years old. And was still taken away from us far too early. And I can't begin to say how I'll miss him."

    With that, he left the podium and took his seat. Joey patted him on the back. Slowly the crowd began to applaud. A few hands at first, then more and more until the entire room was filled with the sound of it. Where there had been weeping was now the clapping of hands. It bounced off the walls with a gentle ferocity. Joe was glad he was sitting. Because he would not have liked to begin crying in view of all those eyes

    The cleric was standing at the podium now, somewhat taken aback by the brief yet emotional testimony of this bold gray-haired man in the crisp blue suit. "Would anyone else care to say a few words?"

    Many words were said that day about the man they knew as Steven Tyler. The kids remembered vacations in tropical locales, holding onto his back as they swam and splashed, and about being there for the birth of his grandchildren. Joey regaled them all with the cleaner stories from good old 1325 Commonwealth. Like the time Steven called him at 3am to pick him up, along with a double bass he had stolen. He had pissed him off, so Joey left Steven by the side of the road, double bass and all.

    The words were said, the dirges sung, and the casket taken by jet black hearse to the cemetery. In the view was Tom's grave, visible from Steven's site, and next to him, Teresa's grave, still fresh. The final words said, the final roses adorned the casket, and the final shovelful of dirt was thrown in. The silence then was maddening. Between sixty people, young and old, there was nothing else left to say at all? Nothing about this man who all had loved so dearly and was missed so much? Joe sighed. He guessed that again he would be the one who would speak. But no words would come out. He was spent. Silent tears could not end this affair. Not now. He cleared his throat. The crowd's heads snapped to attention. So Joe would again be the one to speak. He cleared his throat again.

    "Some things in life are bad. They can really make you mad…other thing just make you swear and curse." Joey and Brad's smiles grew rapidly, and they joined in in a shaky unison: "When you're chewin' on life's gristle, don't grumble, give a whistle. And this'll help things turn out for the best. And..." "Always look on the bright side of life," Liv chimed in, smiling. Others whistled, as that was all of the song they knew. It became a merry A Capella rendering. "Always look on the right side of life..."

    Whistles again. Joe smiled as he sang, This is what Steven would have wanted. These words he felt. He felt them to the very last whistle in the very last chorus.