Shot One Time Too Many

I lay here. The ground is fresh, of a new spring. There are three rows of chairs set up beside me, and a carpet has been strewn over the fresh dirt. It is going to be a nice spring day, but not yet, as the storm is not over.

The morning sun is burning intermittently through the fog and mist. It is not cold, but neither is it warm; the dew on the grass is heavy enough to race right through leather walking shoes which have not been prepared for anything but pavement, carpet, and offices that are far away from here.

Three people are talking, just above the carpet. They are workers, it is easy to tell. “The guests will be arriving shortly”, one with a baritone voice says. Two others are cleaning their guns; one is polishing the barrel with a paisley desert cloth, the type that was so prevalent in the era of tuberculosis, but there is of course little of that now; the other is loading the blank shells in the chamber. They say little. The cars arrive along the road, and a door slams.

Two children get out and start laughing, as children do. A woman, presumably their mother, exits from the other side and quickly calls their names. “Come here”, she says, and they do. She bends down and they listen as she whispers something in their ears. The younger child looks perplexed by what he has been told, stares at the other child, and then bites softly on an index finger.

Other cars arrive, doors open and close. People get up from one of the two the dark limousines that are at the front of the line, but which has just been idling for several minutes. First is an old woman who clearly does not wish to show that she is old, and that she is hurting. Two others are younger, in polished black oxford tie shoes and grey sport coats with red ties, coats and ties which long ago would have been inappropriate for this day.  They move slowly, not casually, not comfortably, though neither stiff.

The pair, both men, pay no attention to the older woman, they move as if they are going to a separate destination.  They speak quietly to each other, but have a facial expression held in a frown. They are struggling like dancers to move forward as they notice the water remaining in the grass immediately while they walk away from the pavement, old pavement that is more like crushed stone than new tar.  The woman sits as they move to stand aside the arranged chairs.  She appears to be heavy in her frail, thin body.

A man speaks above the slight breeze as the sun begins to move the clouds. He is saying words that to him are comfortable and familiar. A warm darkness, like a blanket is covering me. I am dead.