The Waiting Room pt 1

The rain filtered down in large, dreary drops mingled with the cold, hard metallic sound of a hammer pounding. With each clang, the cheap hardware store nails were mashed into the plywood casket. The day was bitterly cold, and each drop of rain seemed to bite the rugged men digging the grave. The men cursed under their breath with each minute of this tedious job. They quietly belittled the small old lady who has requested this extravagance. “Wasn’t the usual way good enough,” each of the men grumbled in their minds but they kept quiet—she was making this job worth their while. The little lady learned their language quickly—money, money was everything in this culture.

As the men lowered the makeshift coffin into the freshly dug earth, the small gray haired, wrinkled faced lady stood alone in the midst of the funeral workers. Each complaint of those rough men only added to the loneliness of the scene. The rain added to the sorrow as it fell upon this small plot in city’s graveyard. The tombstones were broken and scattered among the weeds and rosebushes, which no longer bloomed for lack of care.

The community had forgotten this place. No one came to perform the usual rituals of placing flowers on the graves, but this lady could not forget. This freshly dug grave put a sort of life into the house of the dead. Clutching a handful of white daisies, the slight lady with frizzy gray hair wearing a pink floral print dress cried the salt tears of mourning—anger, bitterness blended with shame. She stood beside the plot staring blankly into the gaping hole and threw some dirt into the grave mumbling what she could remember of the traditional benediction—“ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” The lady walked past the crumbled edifices of the past, trying to read some of the names, which time had eroded.

A small white rose bush caught her attention for the leaves were mostly scattered about the ground, but one lone flower remained attached to the bush. Sparkling with the cold, bitter rain beating on it, this tiny rose brought a half-smile to the lips of this tired lady for it gave her a small bit of hope, and then suddenly the gusting wind blew the last rose into the mud. Turning from the funeral plot, she walked slowly to her old weather beaten Buick and drove home. The scene began to fade into the eerie black recesses of a memory.

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