Some time ago I attended a funeral in New York. The church was uptown on Lexington Ave near the Armory. It was September and the trees on the avenue were a heavy, tired green being blown by a mild wind.

The friend who had planned to come with me had, at the last minute, another more pressing obligation, so I arrived on my own. At this point in my life I was used to doing things on my own, as well as to people backing out, so I was fine to arrive alone. I walked into the darkness with the wooden dusky smell. The church was fantastically high, with stone ribs arching into the heavens like an upside-down boat. I looked for a familiar head, then realized I would prefer to stay on my own. I especially did not want to catch sight of someone I did not want to sit with. So I kept my gaze determinedly away from peoples’ faces and toward my black sandals as their heels clacked on the tile floor.

Want to read the rest?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.