I drove down the stately tree lined street passing coiffed lawns
bordered by turn of the century cobblestones, framing the statues of
heroes from another time in history. I soaked up the warm late spring
sun coming through the rear windshield of my green ’73 Plymouth
Fury. Every divorcee must own one or something similar during their
transition period.
I watched the new green begin to hide the gray limbs of trees that
had been planted during horse and buggy days. Thoughts of that
by-gone time filled my mind. What a grand day it was to be going to
work. I was healthy, happy, all seemed well.
My mind drifted to the Rebel Marina and my waiting weekend boat.
This truly was the good life people wanted, and I had it for my very
own. I was certain Life could not possibly throw me any more curves.
My car was older and running well, just like me. The big seat spread
out to the other door just like me. I could switch around, shift the
tired parts of me. I was loving life.
Unannounced, I felt the ominous icy fingernail chill a furrow down my
spine. A long gray line weaved into my rear-view mirror. Shielded
windows and square back gave the line away. The driver, dressed to
match the car, caught up even with my left side. Immediately my
blood ran a degree or two cooler. I was amazed at the instant body
reaction to my mortality encounter.
The hearse stayed there, beside me, block after block: locked,
I felt like an attached side-car. Our speed dragged through the cold
winter streets under a sky of gathering clouds. A feeling of ascribed
destiny enveloped the gray flannel car. I distinctly heard a call
beckoning me inside.
"Come on, Gaylee, how's about a little ride?"
"Early, much to early for me," I replied.
"Please leave.
Pass by.
Cease to tug at my sleeve.
Go, grave reminder of tomorrow.
My today is not yet over.
My flesh is warm and tight.
The roots of my hair are not yet gray.
The coolness that I feel
is only this winter’s day."
The wind blew cold
through the tall barren trees
lining this gloomy street
filled with dead history.
Without a moments notice
Spring made a U-Turn
right back into winter.
I followed the Bliley Funeral Home hearse west over the cobblestones
at around 30 mph.: a speed just short of jarring fillings out of teeth.
Cars passed us on the left. I chose to stay behind and get the feel
of following slowly. We passed statues of those long past, enshrined
in bronze gone green and rained upon. The acid black streaks filled
facial crevasses with sooty tears, rotting away the effigy of the memory.
The large back door loomed in front of me, the curtain did not hide the
high arch of the casket from view. I knew there was a person inside
putting closure on his destiny.
On we drove, out past the cobblestones. Red light after red light, I sat:
a one car procession on a cold March day still hanging onto winter with
gray clouds and sleet.
I thought how cold it would be today, standing on some hill and how lucky
he would be out of the wind and icy rain. He was without pain. Maybe he
was even watching me following so close behind. Perhaps he was comencerating
his final ride.
The small caisson continued on. I crawled into the polished furniture box
and mentally rode for a while, considering who would be following my hearse
someday. Would I be watching with my spirit nose pressed against the back
door glass or filing my nails saying, "Alas, alas, this too shall pass."
There she sat.
Most every morning I got to see her
behind the aluminum storm door
peering out into a smeared glare
of passing cars.
Her lap was crochet covered to her toes.
The silver of her wheeled chair
matched her tousled unkempt hair.
Slightly to the left she leaned
as if to catch something
I could not see.
I knew she did not see me;
but looked far past
into the gathering clouds
at the horizon of her final storm.
Her entire life
at the foot of her own stairs
framed in plexiglas.
Unable to continue,
too strong to stop,
silently staring into stormy release.