Checkout line

The coffin disappeared in the grave. The widow’s sister sat on a bench. Pulled a handkerchief from her purse. Wiped her cheeks. Another tear traced down her face. The widow walked up to the people in line. “He is in a better place now,” said the first one, holding the widow’s hands. “If you need anything, you can count on us,” said the second mourner. Then rushed to his car. The sister sobbed. The first mourner stopped. Took two steps towards the bench. The sister’s hand shook, and the handkerchief fell on the ground. The mourner walked to the graveyard’s gate. “God has a plan for every one of us,” the third mourner said. She made the sign of the cross. The widow lifted her hand to her head, moved it to her chest. Stopped. Didn’t move it to the shoulders. “Thank you, thank you,” the widow repeated. The third mourner glanced at the bench. Made another sign of the cross. Folded her hands in prayer and walked away. The mourners came and went. All handshakes were the same. All standing like people waiting for their turn at the checkout. The sister pulled the flaps of her coat. Adjusted the ring on her finger. “I remember burying my first husband. Whatever you feel, it will pass,” the last mourner said. The widow didn’t say a word. She took the mourner’s arm and walked to the gate with her. The sister kneeled at the grave, grabbed a handful of soil, and lifted it to her lips.