A memory; Feb. 2008.

Five young pallbearers, red-eyed and sniffling, trying to stifle tears, shoulder to shoulder, crammed in a limo following behind the hearse.

The interstate leading over the river, gently dusted with mid morning snow; the crawling motorcade buffered by cops with three flashing blue lights.

Looking out over the bridge, into the Fore River, mid-morning and freezing February, Casco Bay was placid.

I think the limo driver made some joke and we answered with a tired laugh. I hadn’t laughed in days, maybe weeks — and forcing…