Forty-one years he drove at the pace of a slow hymn. Hat off at the gate, elbow out, one mile an hour under whatever the family was expecting, because the dignity of the profession lives entirely in the speed and everybody in the trade knows it.
Then he had his own turn in the back, and learned the thing the living get wrong about the dead: they are not restful. They are impatient. They have been lying about for absolute ages and would very much like to get on.
So the hymn tempo came off. The old girl took a blower where the flower rack used to sit. The lanterns stayed, because a hearse without lanterns is merely a van. The candles in the cabin still burn, because the customer expects a standard and standards are what he has instead of a pulse.
He has not been late once since.
