The wind carried a slight chill as it swept through Oakwood Cemetery. The trees stood bare, and the sky was gray—an appropriate canvas for grief.
Clara stood by her mother’s casket, her hands gently resting on Michael’s shoulders. He wore the navy-blue sweater Mary had knitted him last winter. He clutched a worn teddy bear under one arm, silent as ever, his eyes fixed on the wooden box slowly being lowered into the earth.
Clara couldn’t cry anymore. She had wept for hours the night before. But her son’s silence was heavier than any tear. There was no expression on his face. Just stillness. As if part of him had gone with his grandmother.
A few neighbors stood respectfully at a distance. The local priest read the final blessings, voice soft and reverent.
“And now, we commit Mary Dawson to the earth. A mother, a friend, a light to all who knew her.”
As the ropes groaned and the casket began its descent, Clara bent down to whisper, “Say goodbye, sweetheart. Just in your heart is okay.”
That’s when it happened.
