Teenage Mortality

On my way to see the rigger last week, I passed the pretty church between my little mountain town and the city to the east. It was midweek, but not a church day, and the parking lot was packed to the point where people were on the grass and double parked on the street. As the motorcycle cop stopped traffic and waved out car after car after car, I sincerely hoped it was a wedding. As car after car contained a teenager or two, barely old enough to drive alone, my hopes dwindled. It was a funeral. Not just a funeral, but a kid's funeral. These were the classmates, the friends, the high schoolers who just had their own mortality thrust upon them in the dirtiest way.
For the next 80 miles or so, I recalled the two deaths from my graduating class in high school. One was freshman year, the other sophomore year. I didn't know either one very well; I actually had to look RB up in my yearbook to make sure I was thinking of the right girl (she had been in a rather large, inclusive clique). What a guilt trip. The girl was dead and I didn't have the common decency to know who she was. At least with T, I remembered passing him in the hall every day between lunch and my next class. All the girls in RB's giant group of friends cut their hair short like hers, or at least cut off as much as they could stand from their long styles. The trend caused a class on ancient mourning rituals that was interesting, but kept everyone's minds on the fact that one of our classmates had been murdered.

Don't worry, I snapped out of it near the state line, and had a wonderful weekend with the rigger.