When I was little, I loved funeral homes.
I went, it seems, to an inordinate number of funerals when little, but the deceased were old. And I don't mean old for a little kid but old for their time.
Funeral homes were a chance to hang out with my cousins when adults were preoccupied, play discreet games and explore uncharted lands.
I still have what I am sure is an apocryphal memory of stumbling down some stairs and into the embalming lab and seeing sets of eyeballs on a rotating shelf.
I was reminded of that memory yesterday when I saw the stairs in question. Unfortunately, there were no games last night. When I spied the stairs, I was in a receiving line for a USA TODAY editor who died of cancer.
First off, not a fan of receiving lines. What can you say to a woman who has lost her husband or a Mom and Dad who have lost their son?
"I'm sorry" hardly seems to cut it. It is never easy for me to go places -- I think that is apparent -- so perhaps people see me and it means a lot to them that I went. But that is just not enough.
"Attention must be paid," and I do, but I need to do more.
I should be able to fix things, but I can't. I can't help the wife, the parents, my teary friend.
I no longer care for funeral homes.
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