For the second consecutive funeral, I ended up as a pallbearer. As a reasonably able-bodied man and someone who considers helping to a carry a casket a great honor, there was never a thought of refusal.
Pallbearers are more symbolic than anything now (my mud-caked loafers tell a different story); between a hearse and a rolling cart during the church service, little heavy lifting is required. But the weight of that lifting is immense, in a way. At a time when family and friends, stricken with grief, have enough trouble carrying themselves through the day,
Pallbearing moves along the grieving process, at least for those who get selected.
For as many times as I thought about the dead man and fought back tears (change the names, and it could have read as my brother's obit will one day), I know what mourners expect in a pallbearer. Tear ducts went dry as I turned grim and expressionless out of necessity. That's the way it has to be when ferrying someone to their final resting place.
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