Inspired by a recent comment in Random Thoughts.
When I was a senior in high school, one of my classmates died. Not through any of the usual teenage shenanigans, not through a random bit of ionizing radiation twisting his DNA.
It took a week to find the spot where the flight path had made its abrupt intersection with local geography.
His father wasn't certified to fly on instruments alone.
But when the funeral came... Ever been to a high school funeral? I wore black jeans, a dark grey shirt, and a black leather tie because that was the most formal combination I owned at the time, and I wasn't alone.
He was one of us, with his chopped-down Docs and spiked hair, a drummer in the local Misfits-knockoff punk band.
Outcast.
Reject.
Individual.
Yet the funeral procession to the cemetery stretched for over a mile.
And the Man said the words, and we waited. And the gravediggers waited. And we waited.
And finally they came up and flipped the toggles and the casket started to descend and K, the most popular girl in school, the head cheerleader for fucksakes, but despite that a decent human being, one of the few, rushed forward and stuffed a note into the bouquet atop the box.
So then we went to the park and stood on the dock at the lake for a while and collected our thoughts.
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