I was nine years old the first time I saw it, a week before Thanksgiving in 1953. I heard it first, a car idling outside the house. Something was wrong with its motor, like its pistons churned slower than they should. I stared into the shadows for a while, listening to that slow growling engine. Then my curiosity got the better of me.
That winter was a record breaker for cold and I caught a chill the second my feet hit the floor. I looked out my window and saw it parked on the street below, a new hearse. The street lights gave its black paint a dark glimmer. Every other car on the street wore a layer of wet grime, but the hearse was pristine. Must have just rolled off the assembly line, I thought, and that’s all I remember about the first time. I’m not even sure how long I stood at the window, watching it chug grey exhaust into the night air.
I woke up to my mother nudging me out of sleep.
“I have to tell you something bad, honey,” she said. “Your granddaddy passed away during the night.”
I remember how my eyes immediately watered as my mind fixated on the black hearse.
“If you’d like to see him for a minute,” my mom said, “he’s still in his room.”
I nodded, wrestling with what I’d seen and what had happened.
“Your brother doesn’t know yet,” she added.
My father had worked the night shift. He was still in his police uniform, sitting next to grandpa’s body.
“I closed his eyes,” he said.
I took in the complete stillness of Grandpa’s face and the bruised hand that was above his quilt.