July 4th, 2007

Between my train stop and my place of work, there is a funeral home. The building, like any building in Manhattan, faces the street, as if it were any other dry cleaner or restaurant or 24 hour deli. And so, on my way to work, on some days, I am reminded that someone, somewhere, on that day, or the day before, has died.

I walk through a solemn line of quiet police officers. On the days when I have early meetings, sometimes they are still unpacking their bayonets from the trunks of their cars. It happens with such frequency now that it has come to the point where I spend eight blocks or so wondering who it is who has died, based on the ages and races and number of mourners that are present. How hard they are crying. If it was a sudden or a long awaited death.

No matter how many times I walk by that place, it seems that I can never come to a conclusion. I only ever begin to wonder if, if one day, I will share my saddest moment with the passing pedestrian traffic.

posted by XX at 11:11 PM