There was chatter in the hall along with music that really gave me the creeps...good creeps,
though. It sounded something like an eternal wave would sound gliding quickly through the ocean,
making its way to save something on the other side; that, and cymbals banging harshly, competing
with the wave for attention. It was a paradox really, however, it was the perfect accompaniment for
this occasion. I think I was the only one who was paying attention to the music.

As I said, there was chatter: about two hundred people around me talking about what a tragedy it
all was. I overheard one woman saying, "Well, God doesn't make mistakes. Maybe he done
something wrong." I couldn't believe it! I wanted to do something wrong to that woman upon hearing
her words. There were others speaking of Mr. Roshi, engaged in conversations about his death. Some
of the faces I recognized from his shop; others were strangers to me. There were those also whom
were the type to attend functions like these merely for moral or social reasons - the type whom
attended because Mr. Roshi was a fellow civilian and going to his funeral was the "proper" thing to
do. Most social gatherings make me sick. I came to celebrate Mr. Roshi's wonderful life and wish
him a farewell. I also came because he had written a letter before his death. It was found in his studio
afterwards and was addressed to me - he was asking me for a favor.

I was disappointed on finding the church was held at Schillen Baptist Church. I suppose it was the
doings of his family, but I think he would have preferred a rain dance instead. With the circumstances
being as they were, I planned to liven this place up a little. Everyone looked so sad. No one there knew
me, save for some people who knew my face. I was fifteen at the time.

I don't remember much of what the church looked like, although I do remember a very long center
aisle with beautiful, lush, forest green carpet. This was the path to the altar. This was the path to Mr.
Roshi in his casket. I walked down the aisle, smiling and looking into empty faces incapable of
smiling back. Sadly, the music had stopped and the church was diseased with silence. A perfect seat
for me was finally spotted. It was as close to the altar as I could get. Since my father had been out of
town, I had nobdy with me and could easily squeeze between two pairs of people in the second row.
They were both older couples that eyed me strangely, suspiciously, and almost angry toward my
presence. I said not a word.

Eventually, the uncomfortable silence was broken, "Dear friends," started the pastor, at which he
veered so that his face was not visible to the crowd. A younger looking man was he, jaunty in his
vocation, yet with a charm of innocence in experience so potent that I became eager to observe him.
My head became full of questions and wonder. How did this young man get to where he is now?

He went on quoting passages from the Bible, which was supposed to comfort the crowd,
reassuring them that Mr. Roshi was in a better place and that he was finally home and all. While other
proverbial phrases were spoken, I noticed that people around me were crying harder. There was
something ironic about this method of comfort. It seemed to be having a false effect.

The pastor then invited us all to join him in a prayer. All heads bowed in reverence, in fear, and
consequently simultaneously, which reminded me of the music playing earlier out in the hall. It was as
if an eternal wave had soared over the crowd, slapping them on their heads. I remembered the
discordance of the cymbals and felt a little slapped myself.

"Dear Heavenly Father, we come to you today in a time of deep mourning. Firstly, we want to
thank you for the gift of Mr. Roshi, which was lived in pure and powerful kindness and servitude. We
ask that you will be with us all as we have lost this great, great soul. And we ask that you will help us
to remember his life always, because he was a good example for us all. May we never forget the
joyous reunion we shall have one day when we are united with Mr. Roshi by your gracious hands.
Please be with his friends and family today..." He went on like this for a few more minutes. The
prayer, as I saw it, became monotonous and is not worth repeating.

After the prayer, he continued, "Now Mr. Roshi has requested something very important to him,
and at this time we will grant his wish. Is there a Judy Bellman here?" I stood up with legs of steel.
Surprisingly, I wasn't nervous, but rather entirely ready to get up in front of these people and grant
Mr. Roshi's wish. I gave an affirmative nod to the young pastor and squeezed my way out of the row,
stepping on the luxurious carpet. I was a young girl who walked with proud steps and a smile. People
looked at me with baffled faces that shouted, "Who are you and why are you smiling?!?!!? This is a
funeral!!" I would soon be answering their muddled faces.

I stepped up to the elevated space in front of the church, on which the altar and the casket were.
The pastor invited me to speak behind the pulpit, but I declined with a smile. I opened my mouth to
speak and lo and behold, some very rich laughter came out. The faces in the crowd, as you can
imagine, went blank. "I'm sorry," I said. "I just cannot imagine what you guys are thinking," I said as
I reduced my laughter. "To ease your questions though, I invite you to listen to, what I am sure will
be, a very enjoyable speech for you all." The tension eased as I had their full attention.

"Three days ago, my mom gave me an envelope with my name on the outside. I read the letter
inside to find out it was from Mr. Roshi. He had passed away the day before so I was confused at
first, however as I read on I found out he had written the letter before he died, knowing he hadn't
much time left. He asked in the letter that I speak at his funeral, because, he said, he felt I knew him as
well as he could possibly get known. He felt I knew him best. With that in mind, I would love to share
with you today my experiences with the charming life force of Mr. Eugene Roshi.

By the time, I actually saw a couple of smiles in the crowd. I was very pleased and felt Mr.
Roshi's presence in each of the smiles. I went on, "I was ten years old when I came upon Mr. Roshi's
little shop. Most of you have probably been in there and know how great it is. I went into the shop
with my father, a musician. I am guessing my father liked the shop so well because of the diverse and
unusual instruments there," I said and received several nods from some people in the crowd. "When
we walked into the store, I was completely taken away. I looked around the dark, little room to see all
sorts of wood and string instruments, chimes and seemingly ancient percussion tools. The pulsating
mysteries in that little room and the small wonders inhabiting it had my heart racing. A small Asian
man approached my father, using his first name, then looked down at me to find a stimulated little girl
in a stimulating heaven. The man was Mr. Roshi."

"He showed me around the store, introducing me to some fantastic instruments, each one of them
with an elaborate history and he spoke of them as if they were his children: precious. My father
wandered on his own, inspecting the tools around him. We spent a decent hour in there that day, and
it was the first time I had been entirely aroused and lusting for more exploration of life. It was the first
time I realized there was life."

"After that day, I returned to the store once every two weeks. It didn't take long before Mr. Roshi
showed me his studio in the back of the shop." Eyes grew big, as everyone knew that Mr. Roshi's
studio was private. No one was allowed in there. "Before I knew it, I was visiting him a few times a
week. I would meet him at the shop, just before it closed, and after he locked up, we would head out
around back to his studio. Most of you are probably wondering what was in there. Why would we go
there alone? Well, let me tell you as I am very honored to probe into these memories."

I had people on the edge of their seats now. It was incredible. "From beginning to end, our
friendship blossomed quickly. He taught me how to play chess at first, and we would lay for hours
while tangled in deep conversation. Over the years, I learned from him how to play several musical
instruments as well. He taught with a passion and love for everything. He tied music in with its
origins and together we took some very spiritual journeys. We danced and sang and became our
primitive selves. I believe he enjoyed my company because he could see that I was eager to learn. He
loved sharing with me because he knew I truly appreciated it. Here recently, we had been reading
ancient Eastern texts, dissecting each sentence with excitement, as we were aware that each sentence
had unlimited meanings. Each sentence contained several different truths. Each sentence supported
the next, but we noticed that it had the capacity to contradict it as well. It was something we both
confronted with open arms and we happily embraced the emotive process."

I stretched out my arm, pointing to Mr. Roshi's casket. "Now he is gone. He is physically not. I
can see that I have not been the only one impacted by his life by looking into each of your faces right
now. Most of you are smiling, which was my plan and also Mr. Roshi's plan, for he asked this of me."

"When I think of him now, I think of my own life and how much I have yet to discover. I
remember our primitive dances, and remember how I felt. When dancing, I felt that we were one. I
hear music now, and realize he is in the music. He is everywhere. I figure this is so because of how
he lived his life. He was always wanting more, striving for the next level of consciousness, grasping
for more experience - but always reaching. And it's just that "reach" that keeps him a part of
everything forever. Thank you for listening."

After I had finished I walked over to the open casket and looked down to see my friend. I reached
into one of my pockets and pulled out a small wooden flute, which we used to try and lure rats with. I
put my other hand on his heart and repeated a verse from Nietzsche. We had said it to each other
sometimes before we parted as our goodbye, "The world is deep -- and deeper than day had ever been
aware. Not everything may be put into words in the presence of day. But the day is coming, so let us
part." * I then places the wooden flute between his two crossed hands. With that, I took a deep breath
and waved goodbye to the crowd. I stepped back onto the lush green carpet, which I could feel
moving under my feet. While exiting the church, I concentrated on the shifting carpet beneath my
feet, the whispers that had just been born, the open doors of the church that grew closer to me,
everything slightly human...

........................The End....................

*Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra: Third Part, Before Sunrise