Beyond the bridge and down the hill, people waited on both sides of the street. They must’ve read yesterday’s headline in the Inquirer about the funeral and decided to come. People had long memories. The attack on Wilson’s granddaughter had taken place three years ago, back when Agnes had been happy in her marriage – a long time indeed.
The procession made its way down Chestnut Street. If the people they passed didn’t salute the caisson, they wept. Agnes again felt a lump in her throat. She leaned down to Grace and Harold. “Children, remember how your city paid its respects to your daddy.”
Just before they turned onto 19th Street to make their way to Rittenhouse Square, she turned and saw an endless panorama of Philadelphians behind her as far as the eye could see, perhaps three hundred people. Norman might lay dead in the coffin, but his city had come out in full force. Agnes raised her chin and resumed the march.
Rittenhouse Square’s quiet beauty struck her as they came upon its diagonal sidewalk. The noon sun shone through the trees’ leaves. Agnes closed her eyes and breathed in the city’s air. The majestic oaks along the diagonal enclosed their procession like raised swords at a military wedding. For the first time that day, Agnes smiled. She was glad Rittenhouse Square would bear witness to Norman’s funeral. They crossed the square and turned onto Locust Street.
The caisson stopped just outside St. Mark’s Church, its broad red doors already opened for them. Agnes turned around to face the people who had joined their procession and bowed her head. Many stood with tears in their eyes.
No comments:
Post a Comment