Saturday

Just back from Marcus' funeral.

The church was so packed when we arrived there was standing room only- and even then- we were in the adjacent room off the back- not really able to see much of anything.  But we heard the songs and bobbed our heads and made up small games with the few very small children running around- too young to know what all the fuss was about.

A few of my expelled students were there.  Including one rumored to have been the target of the shot that killed his friend.  It was good to see them, and I was kind of surprised to get hugs.

There was happy music- a mother spoke.  His little sisters were all there in yellow dresses and ribbons and the boys were decked out in alligator shoes.  People shouted amen and over and over the pastor reminded us that in heaven- the streets are lined with gold.

It lasted almost two and a half hours.   I didn't cry until the end.  When I saw his body- and it confirmed it really was the end.  It felt good to cry around other people crying.  Private and familial and sacred all at once.

That's how it should be.  Women wailing.  Falling out all over- having to be half-carried down the aisle as they yelp and moan "Oh Jesus!  Lord my Jesus!"  Mourners hugged without knowing.  The woman to my left, in the back pew, put her arm around me as I wept (quietly, face screwed up, red with smudgily mascara-ed eyes), "You all right?"  She said (it's a standard New Orleans greeting even more appropriate at a funeral.  "You his teacher?"  and I nodded.  She escorted me to the casket- open- baby blue.  A fourteen year old baby inside.  The pastor ushered us through.  

He looked dead, I guess.  I'd never seen a dead body in real life before.  He looked just like himself but grayer- and it seemed like his skin was slightly too big for his face.  It didn't look supple around his eyes, but a little loose- and yet tough- like leather.  He did look a little like he was asleep- but extremely, surreally, still.

On the way back I asked R and S, both 14, how many funerals they had been to.  Each shook her head with a sort of ain't-that-a-shame eyebrow arch.  Too many to count.  I, at 23, have been to two.  And my grandpa was 82 years old.  That makes a lot more sense.

Here you're never that far from a funeral or a jazz parade.  So, it does you good to always keep the spirits of both in mind.