"Hell boy," Russell said breaking the silence, "when I die, I'm gonna die with a full stomach. You can bet yo ass on that. Yeah, I done see too many people go and die from hunger. And I don't wanna see you be one. Eat up, boy," he said patting my back. "Eat it up and never look back!"
I swallowed hard as a distant freight's horn blew, startling me from my thoughts. Next to me, Diane's arm gripped my father's shoulder. From somewhere behind me, a groan escaped a mourner. Next to Diane, Russell again cleared his plate.
Russell, Diane, my father and myself sat silently as each mourner filed past, laying a rose atop Shannie's casket. When the last passed, Russell and my father stood and paid their final respects. My heart pounded as they stepped aside. My legs felt like led as I struggled to my feet. I stepped forward, my throat tightening around itself. There, in front of me, under dozens of roses rested a symbol of how coldly indifferent nature is. No amount of love, prayers, wishes would ever change that fact that Shannie is dead. No amount of good deeds would ever change the fact that she'll eternally rest here, forever banished from our lives. Even if I wanted, I couldn't cry; I was too angry to cry. As if watching myself from far away, my hand placed a rose atop Shannie's casket. I watched it slide under the flowers and rest atop the cold metal. "I love you Bug," I heard my voice utter before stepping away.
I stood with my back to the casket as Diane shared her last moment with her daughter. When Diane joined Russell, my father and myself, the four of us walked arm in arm up the narrow path to the cadence of Diane's sobs. Atop the hill, I peered over my shoulder, between the monuments I saw the ground crew lower Shannie to her final resting spot. Russell would have been disappointed if he'd known I looked back.
After the internment, Diane said in a composed manner, "I'd forgotten that there are railroad tracks so close." We had gathered in the cemetery's gatehouse for the obligatory reception.
"Irony is alive and well," a stuffy cohort of Diane's responded. He was a double chinned, slender shouldered, potbellied pear of a man, his soft doughy hands and sharp tongue capable of only terrorizing students half his age within the halls of academia. The man was incapable of changing a flat tire and admitted so like a badge of honor; any type of manual labor was the duty of the 'menial class,' he pontificated.