As usual, Bob O'Connor's timing was impeccable. Nobody wanted to see him go, but it will be a long time before another politician comes along who understands the importance of grand entrances and exits more than he did.

Mr. O'Connor picked the beginning of the Labor Day weekend to say goodbye to those he loved most in the world.

As if to complement the city's somber mood as it waited for the mayor's death, Ernesto blanketed the area with the season's first chill. Rain from the storm enveloped the city in a halo of sadness. It was a dark night all around, but it wasn't unexpected.

After doing everything he could to honor the thousands of prayers on his behalf, Bob O'Connor reluctantly slipped away. The hours have been filled with heartfelt tributes ever since.

Hundreds of inches have been written about Bob O'Connor's long march to the mayor's office. His remarkable political odyssey will eventually pass into Grant Street lore as both a primer on how to become a beloved mayor in six months or less and a cautionary tale about the price the office could extract at any moment.

History will record that Bob O'Connor was the second Pittsburgh mayor to die in office in less than two decades, but he was too vital a man to become a poster boy for political mortality.

That's why three days after he took his last breath, it was no surprise that Bob O'Connor turned up at Pittsburgh's Labor Day parade yesterday as its unofficial grand marshal.

The fact that for the first time in decades he wasn't there to glad hand or press-the-flesh created an odd sense of dissonance. It's not what Pittsburghers are used to.

Though his flag-draped coffin sat ensconced in the grand hall of the City-County Building, Bob O'Connor remained the undisputed center of the city's political universe for hundreds of marchers and spectators who lined Grant Street.

What began as a chilly, misty morning full of fog a few hours earlier gave way to rays of actual sunlight breaking through the region's usual cloud embargo. Bob O'Connor always knew how to make an entrance.

Gov. Ed Rendell, arguably the state's most media-savvy Democrat, knew it wasn't his time to stand too high or too proud. It was still Bob O'Connor's moment. It was a Labor Day tribute to a mayor who believed in the working man.

Pittsburgh's freshly minted new mayor Luke Ravenstahl stood with a retinue of state and local politicians facing the entrance and holding a banner with the words "In memory of Bob O'Connor" inscribed on it.

Mr. Ravenstahl was flanked by Allegheny County Chief Executive Dan Onorato and other solemn-faced politicos from the region's Democratic elite. The only person conspicuous by his absence was former Mayor Tom Murphy. Maybe I missed him.

Several feet away, a bagpipe honor guard played "Amazing Grace" with the kind of note-perfect reverence you'd be hard-pressed to find even in church these days.

Resuming their march to the Boulevard of the Allies, the politicians filed past the guarded entrance of the City-County Building to a smattering of cheers and polite applause.

They were followed by an honor guard of police on foot, some with K-9s in tow, followed by squad cars and ambulances blinking headlights.

Behind them, a cop threw candy into the crowd from the nest of his SWAT vehicle like he was on patrol in Fallujah.

The Perry Traditional Academy marching band stepped lightly in synchronized tribute to the mayor who recruited the band to play at his inauguration earlier in the year. Their tubas and trombones would remain silent for a few more blocks.

Acting City Controller Tony Pokora, who was chauffeured along the route in a red sports car, had enough presence of mind to genuflect at the entrance of the City-County Building before moving on.

The bronze, rough-hewn statue of Mayor Richard Caliguiri looked down on the parade from its pedestal, its head eternally cocked in what appears to be sad acknowledgment of the moment, whatever the moment is.

Like Bob O'Connor, Mr. Caliguiri died in office. Unlike Bob O'Connor, he was around long enough to have a track record supporters and detractors could point to. Still, he will always have an army of loyalists prepared to attest to his generosity of spirit.

"I've worked on Mayor O'Connor's various campaigns since I was 16," said Matt Hogue, a housing authority employee from Elliott who cheekily referred to his West End neighborhood as "a forgotten little town thanks to Mayor Murphy."

Mr. Hogue escorted me down the flag-draped hall of the City-County Building to the mayor's casket. At 22, he is only a few years younger than Mr. Ravenstahl. Like the new mayor, he displays a lot of poise for someone who, by all rights, could've left town for Seattle or Asheville, N.C., a long time ago.

Mr. Hogue said he and several city staffers sat vigil with Mr. O'Connor's casket all night because they "didn't want him to be alone."

It was a touching gesture from a young man who claimed to be genuinely inspired by the late mayor. It's not something you see every day in this town. It's as good a legacy as any.