If you have ever been a member of a Catholic parish in the United States, dollars to donuts you have met a Mr. Celli.  You’ll recognize your Mr. Celli from church, because a Mr. Celli is always an usher.

At the front of the line, directing people which way to go around the casket, were two ushers. One was a white-haired, stooped old man in a navy blazer, black pants, and scuffed oxblood loafers. I didn’t even need to see his face to know it was Mr. Celli, our widower neighbor two doors down when I was growing up, and head usher at Seven Dolors. Still. Wow. It would be true to say he hadn’t aged a day since I’d last seen him twenty years ago, but even then he had been old enough to have seen the first fish sprout legs and walk out of the primordial lake.

Don’t…