2855. The squall © Bruce Goodman 25 September 2023

I’m not sure why the squall had to arrive just as we were carrying mother’s coffin to the hole in the cemetery. It was one hell of a gust. The rain hosed down. Katie and Jack left the remaining four of us siblings clinging to the coffin as they darted off for shelter. The casket suddenly got very heavy. And then Doug dropped his side of the coffin and the thing fell down and hit the edge of someone’s concrete gravestone. The lid partly split off the coffin and one of our mother’s feet poked out. There was no shoe on the foot and we’d especially given the funeral man her red shoes and she wasn’t wearing them. We were saturated to the bone. Doug said a rude word and we all agreed. We didn’t know what to do so we left the coffin there with the foot sticking out, and went and stood under a tree to await the squall’s passing. It didn’t abate and after twenty minutes or so we said, what the hell, we’re wet anyway. So we grabbed the coffin and carried it to the hole. The hearse driver, or whoever it was, had gone for some reason. We buried it ourselves. As Doug said, bedraggled and shirtless at the cup of coffee afterwards: Mum would have enjoyed that. And he was probably right. Contact Author Back to Index Next Story Previous Story