His Burial Day

The scene familiar, the spongy rained-upon earth, the mourners lined with grim expression, black clothes billowing quietly…so silently. One lone tree stands sentry near the open pit, covered for the afternoon with veiled railings ready to nestle bronze casket into earth. The priest steps in, ashes to ashes and dust to dust blows through the silenced throng. The grown woman shudders, fists clenched and knees unbending, as the final prayers are uttered. Brain afire, sobs relentless, she stoops to spoon soft earth upon her weary father’s grave. The dirt slides through her painted fingers, and takes her back to days in the sun, pudgy legs plopped in the soil, Dad’s tanned legs standing firm as he weeded row upon row of tender peppers and radishes. So many plantings, so many harvests, between that day and this. So many lessons for dirt and tear stained cheeks, skinned knees and bruised hearts. Now, tending to this final planting, covering softly the man who had gardened her for so many days, she sprinkles tears and soil atop his softened earthen home.