I suppose that he had once been loved, by someone, but that was hardly evident now. The rain continued down in buckets. While every effort was made to protect the mourner from the weather, my clothing was exceedingly wet and rivulets of water poured into the open ground from all four corners of the grave. The funeral director stood by, as is his duty, making the best of a delicate situation.
Words? For whom?
I pulled a cheroot from deep within my breast pocket and managed to light it with my trusty Zippo. The smoke dissipated quickly in the wind and I glanced over at the director obviously freezing to the bone. The whole event seemed so outrageous. I pulled out a flask of scotch and hit it hard in enjoyment of the blend of smoke and peat.
"O nex qua est they punctum," I yelled!
"O versterf waarheen zit zij steek!"
"Are you okay, sir" asked my funeral director friend.
"Shall I leave you to be alone to grieve, sir" he asked sheepishly.
Remembering the days of flinging fists and bloodied noses. Remembering that it is raining like hell and that I am cold. Remembering that this body before is an empty shell, like standing before a pile of ashes and trying to remember the fire the preceeded the pile of soot at my feet.
It appeared natural to place my hands, palms together, and bow. To the universe, to the grave, to the shell before me hidden within the polished oak. With each of my three bows, I was filled with contentment.