Funeral

There are many mental images I have from my aunt’s funeral. The box of Kleenex in the waiting room of the cemetery’s chapel. The white chairs under the tent set up for the graveside service. The black pantsuit of the funeral director. 

However, one image has not only stayed with me, but I think about it often. 

After my aunt’s casket had been lowered into the ground and everything was officially over, my mom wanted to put flowers on my grandma’s headstone. The only thing was, to get to it, you had to walk by my aunt's open grave, and if you didn't watch your footing, you could easily slip into it. 

Wanting to be helpful, I helped my mom negotiate the strip of grass beside the pit. When she got to where she needed to be, I stayed back because I wanted to give her privacy. 

As I waited, I looked into the hole. This was going to be the last time I saw my aunt in the physical world, I thought. I then turned my attention to the side of the pit, the area where the grass met the 90-degree drop-off, the place where life ended and death began. The grass was so green. It might have been extra thick, the way grass often grows in Florida. But it ended at the pit. 

And it is this image of the grass meeting the pit I often think of.