Moved...
I walked into town today to berate the bank once more, but as I did I stopped to cross a road I met a funeral emerging from the junction. Leading the procession were two men in full dress and long coats, each carrying their top hats on a crooked right arm. Following was the carriage I took a photo of (once all the mourners had entered the church).
As they moved on, I followed behind, slowly, so as not to walk faster than any of the cars or carriage in the cortege, and they crossed the main road to cut through the town centre, and as they progressed up the High Street, I was deeply moved to see so many people stop in their tracks, turn to face the procession and stand, respectfully silent. A workman, waist deep in a hole, stopped what he was doing, climbed out, and removed his hard hat; and aside from a couple of chav teen mothers, all you could hear on the busy street was the 'clip-clop' of the jet black horses as they led their passenger on his last journey.
I followed them to the church at the top of town, and stood far back so as not to distract anyone, but as they removed the coffin from the hearse, I admit that I stared a little. It was a smallish coffin, made from a high quality light-coloured wood, but at about halfway down the sides, the colour graduated into a Texan sunset, rich oranges, golds and purples, with silhouettes of old-west drilling platforms. And on the end of the coffin, where the feet would be, there was an oval image, a photograph of the occupant, when he was a child of perhaps 10 or 11... an old photo, probably from the 1920's or '30's. As sad as death can be, and as upsetting as funerals can be - this one was beautiful, and if the service had half the passion and style of his arrival, then the departed would have had a send off to be proud of.
As they moved on, I followed behind, slowly, so as not to walk faster than any of the cars or carriage in the cortege, and they crossed the main road to cut through the town centre, and as they progressed up the High Street, I was deeply moved to see so many people stop in their tracks, turn to face the procession and stand, respectfully silent. A workman, waist deep in a hole, stopped what he was doing, climbed out, and removed his hard hat; and aside from a couple of chav teen mothers, all you could hear on the busy street was the 'clip-clop' of the jet black horses as they led their passenger on his last journey.
I followed them to the church at the top of town, and stood far back so as not to distract anyone, but as they removed the coffin from the hearse, I admit that I stared a little. It was a smallish coffin, made from a high quality light-coloured wood, but at about halfway down the sides, the colour graduated into a Texan sunset, rich oranges, golds and purples, with silhouettes of old-west drilling platforms. And on the end of the coffin, where the feet would be, there was an oval image, a photograph of the occupant, when he was a child of perhaps 10 or 11... an old photo, probably from the 1920's or '30's. As sad as death can be, and as upsetting as funerals can be - this one was beautiful, and if the service had half the passion and style of his arrival, then the departed would have had a send off to be proud of.