The little girl clung nervously to her father's hand as the priest spoke. She was always anxious around crowds, and her stiff black dress and shoes weren't helping any. She could feel the eyes of all the strangers looking at her, whispering, "That poor child," and leaning close to their neighbors. It made her squeeze her father's hand tighter and lean into his leg. He squeezed back and pressed her close.
The sky was grey and clouded overhead, and the summer air was thick around them. The priest had to shout at times to be heard over the wind gusting through the trees. The little girl thought the old man looked funny whenever his long hood and beard flipped up to meet around his nose. The first time it happened, she thought she heard her papa chuckle a bit, too. It made her feel less like a naughty child for thinking it.
She stared for a long time at the big black box in front of her, not listening to the priest or anyone else. She did not see her father look down at her and notice what he called her "thinking face". He wondered what on earth was making the wheels in that little head of hers to turn so much.
The little girl was broken out of her thoughts when Papa picked her up, poofy dress and all. He handed her a long-stemmed red rose and kissed the top of her head. "Are you ready?"
She nodded. Papa steped closer to the big box and put his own rose on top of it. "Go ahead," he said to her.
Her little fingers did not put the flower down as neatly as Papa had. Impulsively, she pressed her palm to her red lips and blew a kiss. "Bye, Mama."
"Good job, sweetheart," Papa whispered in her ear. She watched with her big, unblinking eyes as all the people she didn't know came and put more roses on top of the box where her mama was. Her eyes followed each shovelful of dirt as it was pulled from the ground and thrown into the hole, crushing all the pretty flowers.
After a while,Papa put her down in a chair and asked her to wait for him. She folded her hands in her lap, playing with the thick black skirt of her dress. She'd never worn black in all four years of her life, and she wasn't sure if she liked it.
A boy a little older than her sat down beside her. He wore all black, too, and swung his legs so his shiny black shoes skimmed over the grass. The little girl remembered seeing his pale blonde curls, because she'd never seen anyone with hair the color of Mama's favorite necklace before. She also recalled that the boy's father was very important, as everyone had wanted to talk to him, and when they did they always bowed low.
"Hi," the boy said. The little girl said nothing.
"Got tired of listening to the grown-ups?" he asked. She still didn't speak. "Me, too. They can be boring."
He was a little put off by her staring, but she was the only other kid here, and he was sick of adults either talking down to him or talking over his head. Besides, she looked lonely, even if he normaly would not want to come within a horse's length of a girl.
"My name's Felipe," he continued. "What's yours?"
"Hopie," she answered, so softly Felipe had to ask her to repeat it.
"Hopie. That's a pretty name."
The two sat in silence for a while. Felipe looked up and glared at the grey clouds effectively ruining the end of his summer holiday. Hopie still wasn't talking, but at least she'd stopped staring.
Felipe tried to make conversation. To the best of his seven-year knowledge, girls liked clothes and compliments. "Your dress is pretty."
Hopie's shell finally cracked. "No, it's not," she said hotly. "It's stiff and black. I don't like black. I wanted to wear the yellow one, but Eliza said no. Then she braided my hair too tight, and now it hurts." She took several deep breaths before gasping, "Mama liked the yellow dress. And she was good at braiding."
Then Hopie was crying, with big, fat tears rolling down her cheeks and her whole tiny body shaking. Felipe had absolutely no idea what to do. He awkwardly patted her shoulder. "It's okay. Here."
Felipe reached up and pulled the ribbons off the ends of the two braids hanging down Hopie's back. The braids were indeed so tight they didn't undravel, so Felipe tugged his fingers through them. Hopie's sobs slowed a little as the pain in her head decreased.
A drop on the top of her head made her stop completely. Both she and Felipe looked up and were met with a sudden downpour of rain as the grey clouds finally released their burden. Adults around them immediately ran for cover, but the children were unfazed, merely squinting their eyes against the deluge.
"Do you know what that is?" Felipe shouted.
"What?"
Felipe recited what his own mother often said when he was terrified of a thunderstorm - not that it happened anymore, of course. "Those are the tears of angels."
"Why are they crying?" Hopie asked.
"Because you're crying." Felipe looked at her. "They were sad because you were sad."
"I didn't mean to!" Hopie shouted at the sky. "I sorry!"
"Oh, it's not your fault," Felipe said matter-of-factly. "Angels are very emotional creatures."
Thunder rumbled across the sky, followed by a flash of lightning. "What was that?"
"Now the angels are throwing a temper tantrum. They must have broken something."
Before Hopie could say anything else, her father shouted her name and came running towards her.
"Hopie!" he cried as he swept her up in his arms. "Come out of the rain, before you catch your -" he stopped himself.
Felipe's father had also dashed over to grab his son's hand. Felipe looked back to see the little girl, her chin on her father's shoulder, staring at him, but not like before. Now her eyes were sad and wistful. She pushed her wet hair out of her eyes and waved goodbye.
"What were you talking about, Felipe?"
"Angels, Papa. We were talking about angels."
