It’s hot and clear. I’m sweating in a black and yellow taxi, waiting out the heat at a traffic signal. My window is down half-way; that’s as far as it will go. It’s a long, patient light.
There is a shop on the side of the road, just 10-12 feet from my window. A small, wooden coffin sits atop a table. It is purple with gold swirls and flowery carvings. The coffin man bangs decorations into the lid of the tomb. His insolent insistent hammering shifts the lid slightly to the side.
The light turns green and we pull forward. The oblong shape. The small size. The perfect angles. The somber, serious faces of the two men who wait to receive it.
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