Purple

A funeral and a feast. One comes before the other. From the pulpit the pastor announces the protocol. No taking of food until the family of the deceased eats. That applies to all. You. Me. And people skipping the grave side service. Some trot out to hear more words of comfort. The family rides an open wagon. Everyone else walks through a cemetery that Lutherans and Catholics share. I watch as a community puts to rest a man. Family stays. Others walk back. I linger at old markers, reading dates (1800s) and names (hard to pronounce). When I return to the church, I find my way to its basement. And the realize my folly. Around a hundred people sit squarely before paper placements. Forks, knives and spoons set. Homemade food dishes (casserole, jello and bars) fill a long counter top. Across a sea of occupied tables my eyes search for an open chair. My late arrival puts me at the exit. A woman offers conversation, telling me congregation stories (old pastor pushed out, new pastor trying hard). A man points out Johnny B. "He hasn't missed a funeral in three counties for three decades." I understand. He stocks up. This meal tops the top comfort food. Beige, yes, lots of beige things made with cream soup. No pepper, little salt. Simple and simply bland. But my belly feels warm. The widow burps, covering her mouth too late, and giggles. I wish for a moment to be a believer surrounded by people who know my people and the people before them and those before them. My colors lean towards orange, blue and red. Beige hardly ranks on my list of favorites. But seconds of that green puffy stuff will do.