"I'm so sorry for your loss."

Death Week at Seabury has finally. . . passed on.

Yesterday's Practicum class consisted, at least in part, of a mock funeral. Reception of the Body, Burial (Rite II), Eucharist and Commendation. The presider and liturgical party did a respectable job, coping with the extraneous details. . .

As it happens, I was assigned the role of "grieving widow," supported by a "sister" and a "daughter." We mourned our way through the service most effectively: copious use of tissues, pathetic sniffles and the occasional, well-timed shuddering sob. Our classmates were highly impressed, and more than one suggested we may have a bi-vocational opportunity as paid mourners.

We were accompanied, of course, by the suitably sepulchral funeral director, Mr. Unctuous (aka Dave), who alternated between obsequious sympathy and less-than-subtle efforts to sell us upgrades for urn, plot, etc. until the very last minute.

The deceased, so the story goes, died rather suddenly-- a heart attack. There might have been more sorrow at his loss, had he not at the time been in bed with a woman young enough to be his daughter. Suggestions of foul play are only unsubstantiated rumor.