This was the first funeral I’d ever gone to, at least that I remember. I was young, invincible, and immortal, funerals were for other people in other times, never for me. Those around me would live forever in the unchanging dawn of my youth, or so I thought. Then it happened, one of the rocks of my childhood passed on.
Art was ancient, his face like a dried up prune and his wispy hair a blinding white, yet he stood tall and proud every time I saw him, resplendent in his perfectly pressed blue uniform, badge gleaming in the sun. Kids who wouldn’t listen to anybody else, who were the despair of their teachers and their parents, would jump to obey Art, for one always listened to Art, and one always did what Art told you to do, or he would give you the most soul-wrenching look that made even the stoutest miscreant feel two inches tall.
He was far too old to still be in uniform, his eyes no longer sharp, and his legs no longer capable of running and jumping, yet he still stood, each day, at the corner of the street where traffic would halt at his command to allow children to swarm across the crosswalk. Sure there was a light, sure there was a walk signal, yet Art still stood his watch, still kept the children safe. In truth, we often thought that the light was just there so Art could eat lunch and sleep.
Most days Art wasn’t alone, Salvatore, as short as Art was tall, as rotund as Art was slender, yet equally ancient and equally wrinkled by a long-lived life, would stand with him. We saw them, chatting occasionally but mostly keeping each other silent company. Just as Art always wore his uniform, so too did Salvatore have a uniform of sorts, an expensive suit that still somehow seemed a bit rumpled when he wore it. His eyes were sharp and a bit cold yet we all believed that he was somehow our friend, because he was Art’s friend.
Then one day, Art was gone. Salvatore came to the corner with a black armband on his suit and the saddest, most somber expression we had ever seen. And for the first time he was carrying a stop sign, normally left neglected in the school office. That day he never spoke a word but rather did the job that Art had always done for us; keeping us safe as we crossed the street. That night we learned the news, Art was in the hospital and wasn’t expected to recover.
The next day, Salvatore again was there, tears in his sharp eyes, once more holding the post. And the next day, and the next… then the word came down, from parents and teachers to children that Art had passed on.
Now here we were, in the church we’d been in many times, watching as Father John paced up the aisle to the altar to begin the funeral mass. At the front of the church were two blocks of men, one clad in uniforms of blue, the other in expensive if slightly rumpled suits. Both present to pay their final respects to a man the entire community respected. Behind them were the families of schoolchildren like me, packing the church to the brim.
Art was ancient, his face like a dried up prune and his wispy hair a blinding white, yet he stood tall and proud every time I saw him, resplendent in his perfectly pressed blue uniform, badge gleaming in the sun. Kids who wouldn’t listen to anybody else, who were the despair of their teachers and their parents, would jump to obey Art, for one always listened to Art, and one always did what Art told you to do, or he would give you the most soul-wrenching look that made even the stoutest miscreant feel two inches tall.
He was far too old to still be in uniform, his eyes no longer sharp, and his legs no longer capable of running and jumping, yet he still stood, each day, at the corner of the street where traffic would halt at his command to allow children to swarm across the crosswalk. Sure there was a light, sure there was a walk signal, yet Art still stood his watch, still kept the children safe. In truth, we often thought that the light was just there so Art could eat lunch and sleep.
Most days Art wasn’t alone, Salvatore, as short as Art was tall, as rotund as Art was slender, yet equally ancient and equally wrinkled by a long-lived life, would stand with him. We saw them, chatting occasionally but mostly keeping each other silent company. Just as Art always wore his uniform, so too did Salvatore have a uniform of sorts, an expensive suit that still somehow seemed a bit rumpled when he wore it. His eyes were sharp and a bit cold yet we all believed that he was somehow our friend, because he was Art’s friend.
Then one day, Art was gone. Salvatore came to the corner with a black armband on his suit and the saddest, most somber expression we had ever seen. And for the first time he was carrying a stop sign, normally left neglected in the school office. That day he never spoke a word but rather did the job that Art had always done for us; keeping us safe as we crossed the street. That night we learned the news, Art was in the hospital and wasn’t expected to recover.
The next day, Salvatore again was there, tears in his sharp eyes, once more holding the post. And the next day, and the next… then the word came down, from parents and teachers to children that Art had passed on.
Now here we were, in the church we’d been in many times, watching as Father John paced up the aisle to the altar to begin the funeral mass. At the front of the church were two blocks of men, one clad in uniforms of blue, the other in expensive if slightly rumpled suits. Both present to pay their final respects to a man the entire community respected. Behind them were the families of schoolchildren like me, packing the church to the brim.
