When we arrived at the church few minutes before nine, I wondered why the hearse was there already, two hours before the funeral was due to start and unaccompanied by the usual limousines for family members. It looked strange, lonely sitting there by itself at the curb near the entrance. We were early, so I parked the car to wait for other chorus members to arrive or for Mr. Williams, the chorus director extraordinaire parked only a few feet away, to enter the church before I sent my boy in to perform his brotherly duty.

Collin and I were discussing plans for picking him up after the funeral when I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked up and saw the solemnly suited funeral director make a quick dash from the glass doors of the vestibule, instinctively hunching his shoulders, as if doing so would somehow make the rain less wet. Seconds later, he reached the hearse and opened the rear door. Beside me in the car Collin said . . . something . . . that caused me to pull my eyes away: Was that Mr. Williams coming out of the church? Wait, no, it’s not. A quick glance to the left told me that the chorus director was still in his truck, only a few yards from the hearse itself. When my eyes returned to the funeral director, I saw that he was carrying a small wooden box–not much bigger than a shoe box, though of slightly different dimensions. For half a second I wondered, “What in the world is he . . . . .” The answer manifested itself before I could even finish forming the question.

The boy’s ashes.

The funeral director made his way back into the church, watching his steps so that he didn’t slip on the wet walkway and carefully shielding the box with his sleeve before disappearing through the glass doors once again.

The entire scene probably lasted only thirty seconds at most.

Within moments, Mr. Williams exited his truck and made his way to the same glass doors, followed only a minute later by my boy, his own shoulders hunched not simply against the rain but as a matter of self-conscious habit. He did not know the boys who died, and as he approached the church I found myself once again quite selfishly relieved that this tragedy has not been a personal one for him. Still, he never once questioned the importance of honoring the family’s request for the chorus to sing at the funeral mass. As he, too, disappeared through the vestibule doors, I heard car doors closing and young male voices nearby. Other chorus members had arrived in their dark pants, navy blazers, and brightly colored (by request) bow ties (many of which were, of course, purple). In their grown-up clothes, these boys were walking contradictions: their broad shoulders, deep voices, and freshly-shaved chins provided an illusion of manliness, but to this mother’s eyes, they seemed heartbreakingly young, like the boy in whose memory they would sing in just a few hours, and it was all so very, very wrong.
May all those who grieve find comfort.