full of sand

On the ground at Pragsattel.

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Copyright © 2021, Michael M Wayman

He was a big man, a great man, but very small. And now he is no more; he had been put in an elaborate, small coffin – small enough for a child. He was not a politician, not a pop singer, not an opera singer, not a film star, not a captain of industry, he was none of these things. But everybody in the city knew who he was.

He was always in the company of politicians, pop singers, opera singers, film stars, captains of industry. Nothing big was done in the city without him. And now he is no more.

The funeral procession winds its way around the city; at every junction and bend crowds of people gathered to say a silent last good bye. The main TV channel is covering the event, at every junction and bend there is a reporter. The procession is very slow, two hours are planned, before the service in the Memorial Chapel.

The studio commentator speaks to the reporter on the ground at Pragsattel, the next crossroads on the route. What can the reporter see?

“There’s a huge crowd here, maybe ten thousand, Pragsattel is the biggest crossroads in town and the last one on the route. And there at the front I can recognise Matron and Señor Hasselgrün, I mean…”

“What do you mean? Señor Hasselgrün is dead and in the casket in the hearse. But I must say, it does look like Señor Hasselgrün.”

The procession moves slowly onwards, up the Memorial Avenue up to the Grand Memorial Chapel. An honour guard of four uniformed men carries the little coffin out of the hearse and into the chapel building and into a side room.

The coffin is full of sand.