The last wake I went to was downtown, in the neighborhood once bohemian, now spottily expensive, still showing a few ethnic survivals: the bank with Cyrillic signage, the church with the bust of the Polish pope outside, the funeral parlor itself — Italian surname, with a notice that it also serves Jews.
Wakes can be jolly affairs. The classic account of Boston’s experiment with busing told the story of a newly assigned cardinal, of Portuguese stock — a people who regard death as the great occasion of loss from which Christ saves us — arriving at his first wake among his
Something to Consider
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