Blackbirds fall from the sky like black pepper on the cemetery lawn.  The rich soil of the earth, loosened by shovels, wettened by rain and tears, is full of worms and memories bookended by years.  A hundred heads cock to listen, beaks peck and pull from the ground, something to feed upon.

A frail old woman sits all alone at the neck of a freshly-turned grave.  A lifetime of mornings she straightened his tie mere moments before he’d leave for the day—and one last time—“Please, one more time!” as they rolled him away.  Trying so hard to keep him.
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Andrew Dabar