A shadow past
They gather around his grave awkwardly, huddling against the cool April wind. The air nips at Thea's pink fingers, kissing Otto's chapped lips and swirling around Anna's curls. A crow watching the scenario from an oak tree flies away as soon as the sermon starts, his heavy wings flapping loudly against the breeze.
The minister preaches, his voice heavy and deep, his German rough and guttural. Martha looks down at her scuffed boots as the priest lectures on disobedience. Georg shifts his weight from one foot to another, bored.
From a distance, Ilse stands back, watching the funeral as she rubs one foot against another, trying to keep warm. The wind tosses her hair back, creeps up through her dress and tickles her body.
The last few stragglers fade away- Melchior with red eyes, squinting in the sun, Moritz's parents, stony-faced and decked out in their Sunday best. Mrs. Stiefel's grey silk scarf floats behind her as she hurries off back toward the village.
The only one left is Martha, leaning over the freshly dug grave, her fists clenched against the cold. She opens one hand to touch a coarse black braid absentmindedly. Then, in one motion, Martha takes a few spring daisies out of her pinafore pocket and tosses them into the grave, watching them land gracelessly in a pile.
"They'll die, you know," says Ilse softly from behind. "It's cold."
Martha breathes out. "I'll bring more. Later."
Creeping up to her, Ilse gently puts a hand on her arm.
"Like October frost," Martha mutters. "But it's nearly May."
Ilse steps back, letting Martha turn around to see her in full. Ilse knows she must look a sight, in a baggy old shirt, her face pale and round.
"You haven't been around here much," Martha states.
Ilse agrees. "No." She smiles weakly and swings her arms up and down.
Martha glances down, considering Ilse's bare feet and soiled underwear, visible when her clothes waved in the draught.
"Come. I'll help you pick flowers."
Martha looks up, shaking her head slightly, and, perhaps, smiling.
A few dried leaves blow away, their curling brown tips rustling against the trees.