As I'm writing my 10 double spaced pages to present my writing group tonight, I look out the window and see two police motorcycles drive down 29th, crossing Austin Avenue with their siren lights flashing. At first I wonder and then, before I can see what comes next, I remember what comes next. That black cadillac designed for one purpose-- To carry the dead.
Why I count, I don't know, but I count eleven cars. I should pity the poor soul whose funeral only attracted eleven cars full of people. But I don't, because by the fifth car I see a pattern. Tired eyes. Grey (and blue) hair. Glasses. The tears are mixed with smiles. This is nothing new to this band of the remnant of another time, another place. They lived life with this person. It has been a lifetime since they were in their thirties. Their kids have grandkids. The coffee shops and bowling alleys have long since given way to to dinner on Friday nights which, in turn, has given way to visits in which they exchanged pies and pickled jellies.
Eleven cars is what is left of their group. It's sad but at the same time, this is how it should be.
I'm sad for the last eleven but I'm also angry with them for the years they had with this person they loved.
They are the lucky ones.