When we got to the cemetery I felt bad about stepping on all the people. Even if they could not physically tell me, I felt like I was trespassing. 

All I could hear was wailing and sobbing. She had come late to the mass, but with all her makeup intact, dressed nicely and stone cold.  I mentally applauded her for her professionalism, her strength.

Now all that was over as the last thing to do was to lower her child into the ground. 

Her mascara was running past her shades that were supposed to disguise it. 

And I watched as each “I’m sorry for your loss” made her weep even more. 

I did not throw dirt on the coffin. Watching her mother crumble, I wouldn’t participate in burying her. 

I did not tell the mother I was sorry for her loss or wait in the long line to give one armed hugs. 

I simply watched. 

I had to turn away when she flung herself on the sleek white box hysterically screaming at the workers not to put her in the ground. 

She refused to move and the maintenance guys looked at eachother unsure how to proceed. 

It wasn’t until her last remaining daughter pried her mother’s arm from the coffin to hold onto her. 

Then they both sunk into the ground, forcing their legs to the Earth, 

Willing the grass blades to swallow them up as well .