The infant’s portrait faced Lafayette Gardens, and from my balcony, I could not see any of it, neither the small pink casket encased in glass atop a wheeled chariot, nor the large portrait resting upon it, facing north.
We were washed by the sun from the east that morning, painting my room orange. It sounded lively as any beautiful morning, though it smelled like a petting zoo. I took a peek outside and saw the culprit for myself: A white horse wearing a silver-gilded helmet with large white tufted feathers sticking out of it and matching epaulettes will still stink.
“Is there a princess at the projects today?” I wondered at the luxuriant display.
I headed downstairs and around the corner to the deli, where the livestock transport crew wrapped up their smoke break, and though the smell grew stronger, it became a distant concern. Situational awareness began to dawn on me when I saw the grievers.
Four Black elders in black church clothes. On a Tuesday. Was that right?
An old Black woman with a very large hat and a small pink casket.
Her hair was neat and silver. Her eyes were tired, and their arms all interlocked as they walked.
The hideous thing was me, phone in hand, camera app still open. I completed my staged errand with a sense that I was unworthy to view Kaori’s portrait and slipped back upstairs in disgrace, hiding from the full illumination of day.
Upstairs, I peeked out of my balcony one more time to see the crowds outside cleared, the procession now migrating eastward.
Tall, tufted feathers vanished onto Bedford Avenue, hooves behind a row of white police vehicles, flashing red and blue lights against the 8 am sunshine. The seven-month-old princess, escorted to her final resting place by horse, officer, and chariot, was now gone with the rest of morning traffic.
