Dreaming Your Life Away

My mom grabbed a spadeful of dirt with an unsteady hand as she stood at the very edge and gazed down below. She looked every one of her 81 years, maybe even a few more, as she made several unsuccessful passes, unable, it seemed, to empty the spade of its contents. Or unwilling, perhaps.

Whichever, fall, the dirt eventually would. All at once, in fact, landing on the coffin with a clumpy thud, an eerie sound which visibly disturbed my mom. And me, too, for that matter. I think it was the finality of it all.

Mom’s oversized sunglasses looked out of place on such a frail woman. Though they did provide an effective shield from the anguish that was most certainly beaming from her weary eyes. It wasn’t fair. That much we all knew.

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