I go to funerals. The ones with a reception following the service.
The unctuous funeral director greets me with suspicious looks.
He’s seen me many times. Probably recognizes my only necktie.
He used to grease me with a perfunctory, “Sorry for your loss.”
Now he just nods grimly like I’m an old enemy he now tolerates.
I do not recognize any mourners in the church. I seldom do.
After the service, I quickly head to the reception. I go for food.
Not metaphorical food like being fed by a sermon or eulogy.
Can’t recall when one of those fed me anything but cliches.
I go for real food and sometimes murmured exchanges with
strangers who think we share a loss. Of course, we do not.
But I commiserate with them, mentioning the deceased
whose name I got from the bulletin the usher handed me.
While my hopeful eyes assess long tables laden with food.
Mac McLeod is an old man, ninety on his next birthday. A southerner by birth and disposition, he’s had several careers. A husband, father of five, former military aviator, lawyer, insurance agency owner, and Episcopal priest. He has a good sense of both humor and the absurdities of life and living. A new poet, he’s recently been writing sonnets.