On Top of the Coffin

My husband Andy’s wooden rosary beads are descending into the grave on top of the tiny white coffin. And I want to shout, “Stop!”

Grey clouds move in, turning off the weak November sun, and I shiver in my short-sleeved funeral dress that floats over my still bigger-than-normal middle.

I wonder: why didn’t I ask for the beads earlier? Should I rush forward, lean down and take them? Save them, not waste them. Why don’t I do the unexpected?

Andy and I grip hands, in our front row place next to the spade-sharp edge of the grave. The coffin descends slowly, lower and lower. It’s almost too late.

My hair lifts in the breeze. My skirt flutters around my knees. My feet remain still.

The beads disappear deep into the ground. Then a black-suited director invites us to step forward. Expects us to move. I take a handful of sandy soil and sprinkle. Earth falls on top of the beads. On top of the coffin. On top of my son.

Then I turn and see the sea of eyes watching me. Every move. Every tear. What are people thinking? What will they say to each other later? They were so brave!

I didn’t shout, “Stop!” The coffin didn’t halt. No one watched as I knelt at the edge of the grave and reached for the beads. I didn’t stand up and dust my knees before returning to my place.

We walk back to our car. It’s over. We were directed. We played our parts. We did what was expected. Although we’d never done it before, we did okay.

And I realise: those beads weren’t mine to take. They were a gift from a father to his son. Engraved with his love.

Thomas knows Andy’s beads are buried in his grave.