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The Sad Little Cortege

Every man’s life ends the same way. It is only the detailsof how he lived that distinguishes them. 
--Ernest Hemingway 
It was a morning much like this,gray, barren hills, mourners in black~white-laced altar boys scrunched together.They seemed to shift to the right—we could see their stamina wane.All the black cars parked idly by,not a solitary popinjay in the sky.The priest said a new prayer for you.We anticipated your voice with the rush of the wind.Media not permitted inside the cemetery…the departed stand elevated on mornings like this.