She wailed. I had never heard someone wail before. It was long and shrill. The pain of which struck you in the chest and dug and clawed at you until your tears were reluctantly pushed and shoved onto your cheeks. It would start and then it would stop and then it would start and then it would stop. The tall lanky pastor stood on the edge of the open grave, a perfect rectangle pit. The white meat of his long feet teetered as he rocked his black shiny shoe heels on the edge, belting song after song. I was glued, looking from left to right. A wife a mother a widow an aunt’s mournful wailing on my left and a buckling of knees a shaking of the soul a heaving daughter cousin mother wife on my right. So I stood glued to their center. Transfixed to the witnessing of all of our futures. The incessant nagging of our impermanence once again, annoyingly rearing in the air with hooves of caking mud and sharpened steel … striking down, with a softly timed perfectly drawn tap on the tip of my great uncle’s crown. Here it was, its humbling work. The way we would all want it to come. Whilst sleeping and old and done with bills and child-rearing and wife loving and eating and deteriorating and skin wrinkling and bones cranking and every breath of sweetness in between the work of it all, the love the boredom the discomfort the elation the exhaustion and the contentedness.
He is done, as we all shall be.
If only we will all be so lucky as he.