The Procession

I went for a drive.

I didn’t go to the store. I didn’t go for a joyride.

I led a funeral procession.

You’ve all seen it. The motorcycle escorts stopping the traffic. The black hearse slowly rolling through the traffic lights. The line of cars dredging through each intersection like a line of ants following a food trail.

You’ve all seen it, and I saw you.

I saw you speed up, and jerk in front of me as I drove by.

I saw you purposely look away as you tried to inch in front of me but didn’t get there in time.

I saw you roll your eyes as you stood at the street light, annoyed that you couldn’t cross the street right away.

You weren’t the only thing I saw that day.

I saw a box of letters being placed into the casket. I saw the older woman cradle her adult daughter like a child as she said goodbye to her father.

I saw the smiles from the children as they played in the parking lot before being herded into the backs of cars by their parents.

I saw the pallbearers shield their eyes from glare of the sun as they lifted the heavy oak casket and placed it into the hearse.

So I drove. I drove slowly, giving the limousine and the other cars time to keep up. I drove and listened to the radio for instructions from the motorcycle escorts.

And then I saw you, sir.

An older gentleman, maybe in his late 70s, at the bus stop. You stood, removed your hat, and nodded.

It was small, but it was beautiful.

I just wanted you to know, that I saw you. And I just wanted to say “thanks”.

To the rest of you, I ask, please.

Just wait. 

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