As I take my seat in the back of the room, the strangers in black start to meander in from the outside world.  Some take their seats on the cold, hard wood and stare forward in silence, while others engage in some form of disconnected communication with words and gestures that sometimes seem so foreign to me.  The pungent aroma of half decaying flowers stings my eyes and makes my morning breakfast perform acrobatics within my stomach.

A squirrely, stocky, sweaty bald man in glasses motions everyone to take their seats, and instantly chaos becomes order.  There is no assigned seating, however somehow the collective unconsciousness sits in an eerie sort of organized fashion with the people most important to the guest of honor in front, and the casual acquaintances and strangers in the rear.

After a few speeches, to which I tune out, the strangers in black line up like lemmings at the edge of a cliff, and one by one, they take one last final look at the guest of honor before departing.  I find it amusing that all it amounts to is a few tears shed and some snot blown into a wet, soggy Kleenex and then it is all over.  The Guest of Honor is carried out on the shoulders of their friends, and once again I am left alone in silence.

I sit and think until the squirrely, stocky bald man in glasses motions for me to leave.  As the morning sunlight blinds me, I put on my sunglasses, take out my newspaper and pick one more name to circle out of the obituaries.  As I head into work, my mind is clear and a smile is on my face because for one more day, I am not the Guest of Honor.