musings of a funeral-gone-bad

The rain stings like a thousand needles piercing my burgundy sweater. The longer I stand here, the prickly pins turn to nails, prodding down upon my shoulders. Are these rail spikes or memories crushing my spine, sinking my legs into the mud? At this rate, old friend, I will soon be at your side again. I wonder if I will then finally escape your mother's wrath, unless her eyes can burn through dirt to touch my soul still. The mud is up to my knees now. I'm surrounded by zombies, mourning the death of a stranger. No one notices my folly. The reverend drones on in a thick German accent- comforting, yes, until you see his library. 500 people around me, shifting and clearing their throats, yet I cannot peel my gaze from the stemmed bell sprouting up from your fresh mound. Idiotic hope screams within my chest as I wait for the irrational jingle to tell me what I know cannot be.