Grave Fools by Maureen Mancini Amaturo
Ah , there it is . Such an odd-sized casket , too small for a man , too big for a child , making its way among mourners to the graveside . A flag , a tattered one , drapes over it , the colors of the people of Romania . Too majestic an emblem for these fools , I think to myself . The casket is carried by four men in uniform , though it is hard to tell for sure from a distance what uniform it is . There isn ' t room for the usual six pallbearers due to the small size of the casket . It would have made for a comical service to have all six together , shoulder-to-shoulder , crowding around an under-sized coffin . So , those useless pallbearers follow behind trying to blend with others in uniform standing beside that small open grave . The officiant , though , wears a robe instead of a uniform and must have said something unexpected , or dare I say humorous , because a low laughter just broke the solemn hush .
Luckily , the laughter is to my benefit . It stirs the onlookers and dismantles the silence . The quiet and their focus is amiss . This is my moment . No one will hear . No one will notice . Now I can drag this long-handled shovel behind the evergreens , the perfect curtain to shroud the tools for my work . In the midst of their lighthearted moment , the reprieve from somber demeanor , the blackclad mourners aren ’ t even aware of the dead , never mind me . Not that their grief is sincere . The coffin , as far as they know , carries the ashes of a local killer , once a war hero . The story spread that he had built the casket himself in the prison workshop while awaiting the noose . Too bad , too
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