A hundred ragged breaths on a frosty morning.
It rained whilst the hymns were sung. After the prayers had been recited the close family shoveled earth back into the hole. As they did so a woman began to wail and the choir hummed a low note.
It was an eerie situation. Even though it was an unwitting kind of voyeurism I still felt uncomfortable. It was made even stranger when the wailing suddenly turned into the crowing of a cockerel. The significance of this was lost on me but for all those gathered around it seemed perfectly in keeping with the ceremony.
As the mourning family set about returning to their vehicles we went to collecting up the fallen leaves and dead flowers. After which we arranged the fresh flowers and cleaned the cross which marks my Gran's resting place.
When we were back in the car I broke the silence.
"That was pretty odd."
My Mother considered this for a few seconds.
The rest of the journey home was spent in contemplation. I think we're both finding it hard to believe that my Gran's been in the ground for two years now. After all, the memory of her final breath is still so very fresh in my mind.