W Is for Wasted

recognized the solemnity of the gathering and paused, looking on respectfully. Cyclists, walkers, joggers, and mothers pushing strollers lingered at the periphery until the crowd numbered close to sixty by my count.
    When the trumpeter finished, William welcomed everyone and thanked them for coming. He recited the Lord’s Prayer and those who knew it chimed in. He read the Twenty-third Psalm. There was no proselytizing and none of the formalities rested too heavily on the Christian side of the equation. As he said, his purpose was not to convert, but to express the optimism of faith in all its forms. He and Henry then joined in a duet, singing an a cappella rendition of the spiritual “Going Home.” Their two strong tenor voices blended in a harmony that was both simple and sublime. I’d never heard Henry sing and certainly not in concert with his brother.
    Thereafter, William invited remembrances from those who’d been acquainted with Terrence and Felix. Ellen couldn’t bring herself to speak; too shy in a public setting and far too upset to talk about her father. Anna talked about his love of nature, and then Dandy and Pearl both told stories about the two. Their recollections were varied and amusing, with more laughter generated than you’d expect. Or maybe the laughter was exactly appropriate. I’ve never attended a funeral yet where those present were not bound by both tears and mirth. It was William who captured the sentiment.
    William’s eulogy was brief.
    We are here this afternoon to mourn the passing of two good friends, Terrence Dace and Felix Beider. They were homeless. Their ways were not those we most desire for ourselves, but that didn’t make them wrong. We seem determined to save the homeless, to fix them, to change them into something other than what they are. We want them to be like us, but they are not.
    The homeless do not want our pity, nor do they deserve our scorn. Our judgments about them, for good or for ill, negate their right to live as they please. Both the urge to rescue and the need to condemn fail to take into account the concept of their personal liberty, which they may exercise as they see fit as long as their actions fall within the law. The homeless are not lesser mortals. For Terrence and Felix, their battles were within and their victories hard-won. I think of these two men as soldiers of the poor, part of an army of the disaffiliated. The homeless have established a nation within a nation, but we are not at war. Why should we not coexist in peace when we may be in greater need of salvation than they?
    This is what the homeless long for: respect, freedom from hunger, shelter from the elements, safety, the companionship of the like-minded. They want to live without fear. They want to enjoy the probity of the open air without the risk of bodily harm. They want to be warm. They want the comfort of a clean bed when they are ill, relief from pain, a hand offered in friendship. Ordinary conversation. Simple needs. Why are their choices so hard for us to accept?
    What you see before you is their home. This is their dwelling place. This grass, this sunlight, these palms, this mighty ocean, the moon, the stars, the clouds overhead though they sometimes harbor rain. Under this canopy they have staked out a life for themselves. For Terrence and for Felix, this is also the wide bridge over which they passed from life into death. Their graves will be unmarked but that does not mean they are forgotten. The Earth remembers them, even as it gathers them tenderly into its embrace. The sky still claims them and we who honor them will hold them dear from this day forward.
    In closing, the trumpeter sounded “Taps.” When the service ended people hugged and shook hands and wiped their eyes and blew their noses, connected for that small window in time. The camaraderie might never rise to the fore again, but I believe it was heartfelt and genuine while it lasted.
    As for the matter of the ashes, William and Henry and I considered scattering them along the beach, thus committing an act of civil disobedience, but in the end, Henry came up with a better idea. We took the ashes home with us, and in a private ceremony of our own, we folded them into the rich earth in Henry’s flower beds, where they’ll nourish the roses when spring comes again.

    Respectfully submitted,
    Kinsey Millhone
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