The Funeral

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The memorial for Aunt Catherine's home going was just around the block but I was running behind. Swerving the lanes on MLK blvd,  I ducked into the Dollar Store on 52nd, rambled through the clothing isle, and dashed away with a pair of black athletic socks—six to a pack. By now, it was twenty past the hour; my tardiness as plain as the shiny new hearse in front of the church. 

The double doors to the chapel parted gently.  The red-carpeted isle split the auditorium into halves where I walked towards the front not to making a sound. A few dozen mourners had already gathered. 

Perched atop the alter was the pastor—a muscular and stately fellow, who looked like he might have played college football back in his day, if not the semi-pro league.  To his right sat members of the choir—a cadre of middle-aged women and gentlemen deacons—no doubt long time members of the church congregation. 

Uncle Fred and Aunt Margaret sat up front.  Next to them were Aunt Rose and her son, Claud Jr., who drove down from Hampton.  Front row center sat Aunt Catherine’s only son, Freddie, age 63, who  manage to draw much attention.

Draped in a pinstripe polyester blazer over a white silk shirt, a braided silver chain encircled a wide open collar. His naked scalp—smooth as a Georgia pear—glistened off the florescent lighting. A telephonic device adjoined his right earbud leaving many to wonder what on earth was so important. But then again, this was Freddie, a career musician. Who knew when a message from Earth Wind and Fire might come in, a call he’s been waiting on for nearly forty years. 

On cue, friends and relatives stood before their seats and shared touching testimonials of dear Aunt Catherine, born in 1920.  

Cousin Claud stood up, too.  Even without a microphone, the retired Lt. Colonel’s voice thundered throughout the chambers, back into the kitchen where the ham hocks and sweet potato pies were simmering in the fiery-hot ovens. 

“Donald Trump must be celebrating Aunt Catherine’s departure today. She was surely his most vocal critic! Never missed a day of CNBC news.”   The crowd chuckled like leaves rustled by a sudden gust of wind.  When everybody was done expressing their sorrow and appreciation, the organ released a spiritual hymn that lingered gracefully above the velvet pulpit.  At song's end, a hallowed calm embraced the chamber and lingered.

A shallow cough pierced the silence. 

A fading siren was heard blocks away.

The paster solemnly rose to his feat, and took a few strides toward the podium and cleared his throat.  With the command presence of seasoned orator, he began to speak. 

“Brothers and sisters, Catherine Holmes almost got me killed!” 

Surely my ears had betrayed me.  I exhaled, lowered my chin and rolled my eyeballs upward,  my lower lip stilling dragging the floor.  How is this an appropriate start to a eulogy, I pondered. 

Wherever this guy is going, he’d better get there fast.  I cant’t imagine Aunt Catherine, 97, being connected to a bank heist. 

“While sister Holmes had not physically been able to get to church service..” he said. “I did frequent her home often.”  

“OK, man. I’m lis’nin....”

“One day, I was on my way to see her at memorial hospital.  In the packed parking lot, I was delighted to see some open spaces near the front marked “Clergy.”

While getting out of his car, he explained, two bulky Caucasian men strolled by.  Based upon his description, they were a couple of flatbed driving, country-music-listening, make-a-America-great-again ’good ‘ol boys’—indigenous to the South like ducks to a pond. 

“I bet he ain’t even no preacher!” said one indignantly, intending to be overheard. 

The reverend, feeling a bit uneasy, walked several paces behind the two men toward the elevator.  As he drew closer, the men made a point NOT to hold the elevator door, and were off and away to the godly mans relief.

When the next elevator arrived, he proceeded to the 5th floor, surveying the room numbers until Aunt Catherine’s room quietly emerged.  As he got closer to the door, he could hear the familiar sound of CNBC news whispering from the doorway.

He gently stepped inside hardly making a sound. Upon seeing her unexpected visitor, Aunt Catherine almost leaped for joy, shouting  “That’s my pastor!” That’s my pastor!!”.  Her elderly, sickly roommate—an elderly white woman—looked on, along with her two mortified sons; the men from the parking lot.  

(to be continued) 



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