City Burial (Write About Cold)
There was a lot of gray. I remember that many men wore gray suits and held gray, somber faces. I can’t remember much about the colors of that day—there probably were none.
His father’s head was full of gray. His mother’s head had none (Clairol perfect color perhaps?)
His sisters wore shades of black. Some pieces of clothing lighter than the others. Gray bars layered to mimic black.
The gray seeped into the air and the smell. I can’t really remember, but I think gray smells like the freezer when you first open it. Mostly, you can’t smell anything, but then if you stand there long enough, you’ll notice a hint of must among the frozen air.
The air was definitely frozen as we stood around his casket and the place he was to be buried. His mother placed her hand gently on his casket to whisper good-bye. I almost couldn’t stand it. It was too much pain.
There was snow mixing with dirt in the cemetery. I stared at this dirty snow as they prayed for his soul. They spoke words and threw flowers in the unfilled hole. As they lowered the casket into the ground, I couldn’t help but look at everyone’s faces.
Eyes shaded by dark gray tinted sunglasses. Gray tears. Gray and shaking hands. The air was cold, cold and gray. The feeling was like standing in place forever. Then, there was nothing left and we moved on.
AKR
