Outside the Crematorium

The car that brings that box with requisite solemnity purrs reverently to its gentle halt. The engine is well mannered, so quiet I hardly know it’s died, yet the silence now is solid, till men in black, with practised gravity, pass to the rear to slide out that box from its car-borne bier, where it sat like a slab during transit. Now it commands my eyes; it shares my air. That box! It cannot be ignored, not now it is here and I so close and knowing what is in it. Only when it is carried inside and placed on the catafalque – restoring distance between it and me – do I allow a resumption of my breath as I move into the chapel to take my place and make my farewell.