Peering out the window, I stare at the hanging cross. The church, the procession, never seemed gloomy as under this overcast sky. My mind flees to fancy a dramatic shift in tone, as if the pallbearers dropped the casket. A body could flop, plop on the ground, before coming to life once again. Maybe a dance would be had with dramatic moves, not unlike Pete Wentz’s guitar rifts in that one video years ago. Yet, they continue on without haste or trouble, tragedy spelt upon their faces. The cracked window allows the smell of rain and a cool breeze I once knew when I felt death myself. But, the cross, I wonder, with its looming presence, might it be a statement or a reminder? Who knows, in the end, I guess. Those who touching death have more depth than a pondering scientist, trapped here on the other side.