Reflections - cover2

A Journey not Measured in Miles - Rash
looking at the pressed-tin ceiling high above and slow tears rolled from the corners of her eyes and wet the pillow in the gloomy darkness.
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The town reacted as any small southern town does at the death of its important personages. It shut down for two days to observe all the rites of
passing. No one spoke of anything else. Tons of food, tons of flowers, and tons of people passed through the living room of the ranch house, while
Rash lay in a closed casket at the funeral home. Rash’s wife and children took turns standing in an informal receiving line and accepted the visits
and softly spoken eulogies in their self-contained, tearless way. The atmosphere was hushed, respectful, and gracious. Oolucha’s face never
changed expression. At the cemetery after the burial, she stood by the limousine while the same people filed past again offering the same
condolences.
Small knots of people stood around talking for a long time after the limousine pulled away. A big funeral was like a reunion – many people visited
only on such occasions; it was one of the few legitimate reasons for not working. The knots slowly unwound and people in them quietly drifted
away, looking back at the new grave with its heavy burden of flowers. They had buried one of their own this day.
For weeks afterward, speculation and conjecture about how he had died occupied the men at Tobe Fuller’s café. The scene at the bridge was
replayed again and again. Had it been a heart attack? Suicide? A stroke? A drunken accident? Maybe a blowout? No one would ever know. That
would have pleased Rash. He passed from life into legend.
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