The box looked heavy. He’d brought it to the church in a paper bag, a fancy one with the name of the funeral services company on the side, fixed to which were two string handles. The wood, highly varnished, shone golden in the afternoon sunlight. Her name had been etched into a metal plate screwed to the lid. I never knew her middle name was Ann. A small name for such a big persona. The hole had been prepared. The stonemason had laid a layer of fake green grass material inside and around it. A shovelful of topsoil had been thrown in ready to receive the box. We stood around in the sunshine as the vicar said his piece. Her sisters wept behind him. Her husband and grandson (an earnest boy of about nine or ten) knelt down to place the box in the hole. Her daughter leaned in to throw in an envelope of her grandchildrens’ drawing. People hugged each other. Her great aunt refused her wheelchair and stood, swaying slightly. Wide-eyed, the youngest of the children stared around at the grown-ups unsure of what it was all about. No one enlightened them. R.I.P.
I’m sure I heard your laughter, all the while knowing that you would’ve been crying too, those blue eyes as liquid.
