The interment took place at the end of the point, where clouds raced towards the desert and the air that filled my lungs was fresh with cut grass and salt spray. The priest stood facing the sun, and he squinted when he looked up from a bible worn softly to nap. I thought of all the burials he had presided over and wondered if each still had the power to deepen the creases around his eyes, or if, with time, he discovered a means of sheltering himself from the grief he was sent to ease. Beyond his shoulder, I saw rows of marble headstones that stretched on towards the sea.
The wind whipped at my clothing and the sun shone overhead. What an ideal day it was to be laid to rest: cool, brisk, and swept clean by the storms that had passed during the night.
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