When I was eighteen on the morning of the day before Easter, I came downstairs and told my mother about the dream I had just had. I dreamed of a funeral that was so huge, it had to be held in the rock gardens of East Central.(?) There were nuns (?) there. It was raining a fine mist. It was the funeral of a young boy. I did not know who the boy was.
Mom gasped and told me she had had a dream about a funeral, too. Many people were there. In her dream the people were coaxing her to go up to the casket and see who it was.
She did not want to know.
They kept saying, “Go see. Go see who it is.”
She did not go look.
At ten minutes after four o’clock that afternoon, my younger brother was killed when the car in which he was riding was hit by a southbound freight train. His friend was also killed.
So many people attended the funeral, the multipurpose room of the church had to be wired for sound so the spillover crowd could hear. All day long a fine misty rain fell.