At the end of my street, on the corner, is the local funeral parlor. When I first looked at the apartment and even later moved, I didn't even notice its placement there.

Even when my mother hit the parlor's herse with her car one Sunday morning, I didn't think of the establishment as any different from the laundromat down the street or the liquor store on the corner - just places I pass by on my way to school each day.

But lately, I've been walking by on my way each morning and have had to manuver my way through crouds of mourners stationed outside the building. For the past two mornings there have been various cop cars waiting to lead the "death parade" (as someone recently referred to it). My eyes have stopped to linger over truckloads full of flower arrangements. Now that it's existance has become blatently aware to me, I realize that it's actually kind of depressing. While I never see the caskets or the bodies they hold that frequent the parlor, almost every morning this week I've walked through a handful of people dressed in black, either smoking alone, comforting each other, or waiting for something to end or begin.

I suppose I should try to turn it into some positive reminder of the preciousness or life or something like that, but really, I just live around the corner, it's not like I work there or anything.