Handful of Dirt
I look at the people around me, women and men stare back at me with sad eyes, filled with despair and disbelief. I turn my head slowly in the other direction and see the familiar faces of my family. I watch as people go by One by one, to throw a handful of dirt over her. The sound of it hitting against the coffin is hard and hollow. Then it is my turn. Trying to remember how to walk, I start moving Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. I get closer, bend down, knees trembling. I place my hand on a pile of dirt. The ground is frigid and solid, From the New Years Nor’easter. I grasp my fingers around the grainy, frozen dirt And pick it up Like a claw in those arcade games. I can feel the cold pieces slip through my clenched fist As I pull it close to me. Then I continue walking. Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. Then I am there. Staring straight down into her grave, I am frozen in time. I feel a hand, Warm, and soft, Gently placed on my numb shoulder. A feeling of comfort rushes through me. I stand there in shock. My lip quivers, My hands tremble, Like a washing machine at high speed. My “too hot to handle” hand warmers in one hand And the frozen dirt in the other. I slowly release the dirt into her grave, One finger at a time. Then it is over. Through the silent tears we walk back to the limo, Heads down, Heavy hearts. Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot.
