The Gravediggers Lament

He takes a long drag from his cigarette, drawing the unfiltered smoke deep into his lungs. As he exhales, the smoke emerges through his nose and mouth like specters free to find their way back home.

He draws a heavy sigh as he stares down into the hole contemplating the end of his life. That'll be him down there one day, and he wonders who might be standing over him thinking a similar thought. The skies roll over into deep shades of gray that throw shadows on his face making him appear much older than he actually is, although his broken down body tells him otherwise.

His arms strong from years of lifting dirt on rusty shovels. Backbreaking work which shows as he moves and walks slower than just a year ago. The mourners have filed away and he stands alone on the hill. He's grateful for these moments of quiet and contemplation. The blackbirds on the bare branches above his head crow their final farewell and fly away to grieve for another.

The gravedigger wipes the sweat from his brow. His hands and fingernails so encrusted with dirt no amount of washing can remove it. Veins defined by age crisscross his thick gnarled fingers. Working the earth for so many years has completely overtaken his sense of smell to the point where dirt is the only scent he knows. 

He tosses the final shovelful of dirt on the grave and pats it down gently, as if caressing a familiar lover. He takes one last pull off his cigarette, stubbing it out between his thick callused finger tips. He knows he can't keep this up for much longer. This job ages a soul quickly. It's a job for younger men. A lone drop of rain is quickly followed by thousands. The gravedigger grabs his faithful shovel, briefly looking skyward as the cleansing baptism cools his tanned and leathery skin. He pulls his cap down low over his eyes as he descends the hill. His day finished as darkness transcends in hues of purple and blues.

He makes his way back home to no one.