Funeral Day Incident


I never believed such a being as the angel of death
existed, visibly or invisibly.

The misty morning of my aunt’s funeral
I searched and searched, tripping on zero
while trying to locate
the funeral home--complete with organ music and lilies--
where the ceremony was commencing and unfolding
during that overcast 10:00 A.M. hour.
As I stomped down and up and up and down
wide Atlantic Avenue, then paced narrow Pacific Street,
I detected a very old man, at a distance, following me.
After a while, I slowed down: curious, I guess,
about this looming stranger.
After a longer while, he shuffled close to me,
negotiating thread-tiny steps, while he leaned on his cane,
maneuvering his sandaled feet, as his wood necklace
thumped like a infant’s heart
on his protruding upper stomach.
Watching him, I stood still.
He projected fearlessness.
He smelled of incense smoke.
“The funeral parlor is to the west,
then to the north,
two blocks west and one block north,”
he chanted in my direction
before angling to my right, beyond me,
then disappearing around a brownstone corner.

I tasted incense on my tongue, followed his instructions
and saw that he was right.