One Plot Less

They sit down, giving the earth on the mound one last pat. The sound of stone against metal is heard upon putting the tools to the ground. It was hot and late already, but something tugged at the brain. Thoughts scattered, scampering worse than wind-whipped leaves. These Indian summers have everyone beat. What was it that the pastor had said? The last of the procession had most certainly left. Soon it would be time to punch the clock. Suddenly from behind, over head, a dark arrow, dissipating South. "Take a look at those geese... all out of formation;" they squinted together out into the sunset. Assorted images followed. Mama Fortuna appeared... as if across the screen... looking for the last unicorn. It was nice being eight, nine, even ten. But it was getting late. Reflection tugging at projection. A brief every day exchange followed:

"What's for dinner?"

"Dunno."

They picked up the shovels, dragging their feet, and at the same time anxiously looking back. Like some kind of reminder of something, near yet far, something always tapping us; yet black or invisible, when turning in attempt to face the fact.

"Guess we'll find out," they packed into the car.

Shame there wasn't a fresh breeze throughout this cemetery.

"Yep."

#Haunted #withoutGhosts