The following is a work of fiction. In Three Parts serves as an opportunity to flex my creative writing muscle. 

The black hearse pulled away from the funeral home slowly, but with conviction. It will not take us long to reach the city limits of my hometown. There are only a few turns beyond that imaginary line in the only limousine most people will ever ride in to reach our destination.  

In rural towns across America, your fellow mourners are encouraged to follow slowly behind the lead car with their headlights on. Without a need to be told, other motorists pull to the side of the road and allow the family and those heading to the cemetery free passage. If you have never witnessed such a sign of respect, it is a sight to see. Personally, I have sat on both sides of this ritual. I have sat quietly in my car with a wandering mind intently focused on the family and friends before me. I have also been on the receiving end and felt choked with emotion that can only come with such a simple display of collective mourning.  

Staring out the window on this sunny day in November, I can only hold one thought in my mind. I would give anything to be on their side of the fishbowl.  

In the car, the smell of leather is strong, and I am surrounded by my brothers and sister. Nobody is really saying anything memorable. There are a few feeble attempts to cut the tension with a joke. They only muster a polite laugh. We are all right here, but we are all wishing we were somewhere else.  

As soon as silence fills the car again, we arrive at the cemetery. Piling out of the car, we see a small collection of white plastic chairs surrounding an open hole in the Earth. Unseasonably warm for November, a small canopy stands strong, offering relief to the family.  

With unsettled steps, we make our way to the back of the hearse. Car doors close, and those gathered in this makeshift sacred space form a widening circle around the tear in the planet. Soon, that rip in time and space will consume and hold someone I love.  

Focused on the next step, the funeral director meets us at the back of the car. Six of us prepare to receive a simple black casket holding my brother. With three people flanking on each side, we walk him to his final resting place. As we attempt to take synchronized steps, I am suddenly struck by the weight of the box. Fearful of dropping him, we hold tightly. We may have let him down in life, but we will not make that mistake now.  

With shuffling feet, we deliver him to his forever home. I hug my mom and dad. Then I fade into the crowd and attempt to become nameless. As the minister begins his practiced graveside ritual, my mind puzzles deeper questions than enteral life.  

How should a life end? Should it end in the stiff embrace of black steel? Should it end with family and friends surrounding you? Who gets to decide how you die? What if you make that decision for yourself?  

These are some questions flooding my mind. No matter how I try to escape them, these daunting and philosophical questions cannot contain themselves. I cannot answer them. With a fresher mind, one not soaked in regret, guilt, and pain, I might attempt to debate with myself. That day is not today.  

Be good to each other,  

Nathan