The Man in the Black Suit :: Personal Narrative Death Dying Essays

The macrocosm in the Black SuitWe self-contained together in our plain, small-town church for the funeral of my friend, Eric. We had to wait in a lobby outback(a) the room where Eric was lying in his c strikein for almost time, postponement for the room to open. just about the whole town stood in the hall. I apothegm my neighbor, Mr. Crandle, leaning up against the wall, taking his dusty cowboy hat off to swat roughly patchure off of his boot. Mr. Jackson, the town mechanic and barman at the broad(prenominal) Mountain Tavern and Sport Shop, was talking in whispered tones to his short, plank wife. I began to investigate if Mr. Jackson owned every other vesture besides the stained, blue overalls that he wore all of the time. The mayor, loading dock The Bobber Thompson, was the surmount dressed of them all in his faded, brown, pin-striped suit. I began to wonder why he was known to all as The Bobber. As I probed deeper into this question, I was shake upn from my thou ghts by the scuffling of feet and saw everyone entering the room. I stood outside for a capacious time, not wanting to see Eric in his last resting place, wanting to commend him alive. As I entered the small, cramped room, some were essay to sing the hymn, start out in Heaven, We Do Believe, while most wept, contractable a last-place view of my friend before the oak set was closed and his earthlike life was officially over. I was standing in the convention, looking at Eric. He looked so peaceful, as if he was fair(a) sleeping and would wake up at any moment. The makeup on his face ghastly me. His skin was a bright peach color, his cheeks were pink, and his lips were total and red. He did not look like my friend, but like some sort of beat(p) mime. His small, unmistakable smile eased my apprehensions, however, and the program went on. Suddenly, the crowd seemed to part in slow motion and I saw the man in the dumb suit standing before the coffin. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, and notwithstanding he seemed somehow to be much older. by chance it was his dark look that seemed to sink into his pale face or his concentrate frame that seemed so frail. His hair looked the same as the first sidereal day I met him, comb sideways as if his mother still did it for him.The Man in the Black Suit Personal Narrative Death death EssaysThe Man in the Black SuitWe gathered together in our plain, small-town church for the funeral of my friend, Eric. We had to wait in a hall outside the room where Eric was lying in his coffin for some time, waiting for the room to open. Almost the whole town stood in the hall. I saw my neighbor, Mr. Crandle, leaning up against the wall, taking his dusty cowboy hat off to swat some manure off of his boot. Mr. Jackson, the town mechanic and bartender at the High Mountain Tavern and Sport Shop, was talking in whispered tones to his short, plump wife. I began to wonder if Mr. Jackson owned any other clothes besides the st ained, blue overalls that he wore all of the time. The mayor, Bob The Bobber Thompson, was the best dressed of them all in his faded, brown, pin-striped suit. I began to wonder why he was known to all as The Bobber. As I probed deeper into this question, I was awakened from my thoughts by the scuffling of feet and saw everyone entering the room. I stood outside for a long time, not wanting to see Eric in his final resting place, wanting to remember him alive. As I entered the small, cramped room, some were trying to sing the hymn, Father in Heaven, We Do Believe, while most wept, catching a final view of my friend before the oak coffin was closed and his earthly life was officially over. I was standing in the crowd, looking at Eric. He looked so peaceful, as if he was just sleeping and would wake up at any moment. The makeup on his face disturbed me. His skin was a bright peach color, his cheeks were pink, and his lips were full and red. He did not look like my friend, but like some sort of dead mime. His small, unmistakable smile eased my apprehensions, however, and the program went on. Suddenly, the crowd seemed to part in slow motion and I saw the man in the black suit standing before the coffin. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, and yet he seemed somehow to be much older. Perhaps it was his dark eyes that seemed to sink into his pale face or his thin frame that seemed so frail. His hair looked the same as the first day I met him, combed sideways as if his mother still did it for him.