There’s a little neighborhood I walk through on the way to the train each day that reminds me of Venice. The classic New England clapboard houses are set close to the street behind picket fences and well kept yards. The streets are so narrow I imagine I’m in a black, lacquered gondola gliding between palazzos on the way to work.
One morning, a large, shiny-black hearse was inching around the tight corner on the way to the nearby local funeral home. The only thing missing was a gondolier to shout “Oy!” as he made the turn.
Instead, the driver shouts: “You’re going to be late!”
It’s my retired friend Don who drives part-time for the funeral home.
My reply: “I certainly hope so!”
copyright 2017 Christopher M. Donahue