I did not have elegy owed, nor did I respects to pay or closure to chase.
But the procession of cars keeping me bayed at the two-way-stop droned a doleful tune of graveled pain dulled by the panes of glass in my windshield.
ten fifteen I stopped counting the cars
All elderly, or atleast most, save for the young people
They followed head to tail-light and I needn’t hear a single word of Eulogy to know the lives this man touched.
And my ephemeral moment of empathy morphed to apathy as it transitioned, as all my selfless thoughts do, to selfish, and I wondered if I would be followed by my own procession of sad cars.
Buried beneath the feet of the footsteps I admired, by the hands I often held, and held often by the hearts I held in my own.
I do have one hope for my end, and it’s just that.
For the people I love to trap some poor selfish teenager at a two-way-stop, and leave him with a driving need to become a better man.