The rain: slanted drizzle, grayscale backdrop, leafless trees drenched. The populace of black parasols, feathering the rain, raven-wing-like, down the acrylic coated nylon onto the already soaked greens. Parasols grouped tight, snug, closer than amphibians morphing into frogs in desiccated ponds, gasping for air, for space, confined only by circumstance. Closeness like this is never wanted.
The plot of earth is pried open, exposing the wet sloppy clay interior, modest puddles of uneven proportions pock the hole.
An ecclesiastic groan from the pastor, an imitation of life, a veritable dyslogy on death, a fabricated ray of light battered by the onslaught of rain, battered back into the mouth from whence it came, back into the sealed casket, back into the mother’s womb, battered back into the dirt, back into time immemorial, then, no more groans, no more words, just rain and a miniature casket lowered into a hole.
Shovelfuls of clods cover the entire opening until the casket is slurped back into the earth, and all that remains to be done is the smoothing of dirt once the rain stops so the grass sods evenly, and for two doltish umbrellas to leave the scene—like the others did minutes before.