Cliché-ly it rained. A gray stillness painted over everything and cold wind blew in from the north. They had just finished lowering the casket into the grave. My mother bent over and picked up the first handful of dirt. Her hand shook as she opened it up, letting the damp clumps of dirt fall silently down into the abysmal grave. In the other hand she holds a black umbrella steadily. My mother had always been a master juggler between breaking and standing.
She turns around her face is expressionless and smooth, but tears dot her eyes. My mother seldom cries. Surprising that she is, there's was an arranged marriage; I never thought she actually truly loved him.
"Come, my son, let's go before it begins to thunder." She says quietly thick in British accent. I knew my mother was from England but….Never had I heard it. I turn around on last time. The gravediggers are quickly shoveling the hole in with earth. My eyes drift upward to the large angel that is the grave marker. She has great drooping sleeves and wide open arms. Its lips do not smile and its eyes seem to pear out into the distance, the horizon. An expression that is ominously familiar. I turn around and follow my mother back to the car waiting for us.