It was fucking cold. You could feel the frigid temperature of the water with every crash of a wave.
Smashing. Splashing. Mist in your face. Wet.
You’d try to wipe it away, but your brow could never fully dry.
After the first step, my leather loafers were soaked. My socks consumed my feet like a muddy marshland, sloshing about my toes, but held in place by the tiny confines of my shoes.
That day, the rain provided no sympathies for the dead, and none for us either.
Our cobblestone pathway was submerged at points. The rapid waters gave challenge to the Pallbearers and true testament to the Elderly. Like tip toeing across slick moss, our grip was often fluid, like the ocean, like the storm that spun out before us.
That was always the risk we took to bury our dead.
With each lightning strike we processed, in unison, like ants marching towards one common goal, with one purpose in mind… to survive, and survive to tell the tale.
When we reached the sacred monolith, the rain quieted down, but the sea and the storm intensified. We weren’t scared, for the darkness didn’t come to swallow us that day.
In those final moments of prayer, and ceremony, and life, a golden light shined down upon us and provided warmth for our souls. Maybe, just maybe, that was God.
