In front of me stood a Chinese couple. Behind me, a tai-tai with perfect hair and more foresight than I - she stood in the shade of a large blue umbrella, wearing shades while I fought an uphill battle to smooth my frizzy hair into submission.  

I had never stepped into the Istana before today. We were  ushered on board a shuttle bus after clearing security checks. The bus took us on a two-minute scenic ride through the Istana grounds, before dropping us just before the road turned into Sri Temasek, from where the visitors walked up the slope towards the house and joined the 200m queue to bid Mrs Lee farewell.

The queue inched along up the hill, and in the the foyer of Sri Temasek, I signed a condolence book and made a donation. Visitors queued  and entered  in rows of three. Everything moved  quickly and quietly. Before I knew it, I was inside.

The first thing I noticed was a sweet scent  in the air. The hall was lit with a soft orange glow and in the centre of the marble hall lay the casket, ringed with pink and white roses. In front of it stood a picture of a younger Mrs Lee, smiling at me with an unwavering gaze.

To the right of the coffin stood Mr Lee Hsien Loong and his first son, who lowered their heads in acknowledgement as visitors bowed to the casket in the traditional sign of respect.

I've seen the Prime Minister any number of times on TV, speaking at the National Day rally and at the Chingay Parade, but the PM Lee Hsien Loong I saw today is the one that’s really going to stick in my memory.

They say death is the great leveller, that he spares no one regardless of age, race, status or political leaning. Death is part of that shared human experience, and it binds PM Lee to me, to you, to your neighbour Mr Tan.

Today, I did not see the Prime Minister. I only saw a son trying to hold back his tears, to hold himself together in front of the visitors that had come to say goodbye to his mother. He kept his back straight, composure intact, but surely underneath it must be a roiling black mass of grief, compounded by fatigue from a long-haul flight from Belgium.

Albert Camus once wrote, 'You've hardly time to get used to the idea that someone's dead; before you're hauled off to the funeral.' Death is always sudden, and the funny thing about funerals is there is never any room for mourning in private, not until the funeral is over.

And even then there is work to do - you mourn, but you must learn to 'move on' without forgetting, you must remember who gave you the gift of life but 'be strong'. Seldom do you hear of such well-meant yet useless advice. When I lost a loved one earlier this year, nothing was more depressing than to be told 'be strong' and 'was it sudden?' Please file this tidbit away for future reference.

Perhaps the most practical and sensible thing I've heard at a wake came from a man I spoke to today. Jaren, a 49-year-old business man, said, 'I hope MM Lee will keep busy. He's still strong'.

My heart goes out to the Lees, who have lost a dear wife, mother, grandmother. Please keep busy, keep moving forward. You know there are 5 million of us behind you.