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Seven Days Standing anonymous amongst the congregation, he stares as friends and family lower the coffin into a collapsing grave. Six burly men lean over the open chasm, striving to maintain balance in the torrential rain. All the pallbearer’s shoes had once gleamed with pride - now they stand caked in mud, housing feet struggling to maintain a grip on the slippery grass verge. The wooden sarcophagus slowly disappears from view, inch by inch; a barely audible splatter resonates from beneath as it meets its waterlogged bed. He spies the look of relief on each of the men’s faces as they straighten up, dropping their straps - he suppresses a smile as one grimaces with a seized lower back. He always found this part of a funeral darkly comic. The risk of falling in; the pain of an aching back; the look of worry on the pallbearer’s faces as they carry the coffin to the graveside, struggling with the responsibility of staying balanced whilst preserving a modicum of dignity. Things like these always seem to help ease the tension felt at a graveside. At least that’s how it was for him. Looking over his fellow mourners, he isn’t so sure the feeling is reciprocated. |
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