Asher pulled the coat closer around him, feeling the light fall of rain begin to seep through to his skin despite his best efforts, and the large umbrella being held over him by Uncle Melvin (not really one of his uncles at all, but an old family friend). After seven years in America, he had almost forgotten how much he hated English summers.
Drum beat rain beat down on the hollow pine as the coffin was lowered gently into the black earth. It was quite unreal.
Someone nearby burst into tears and had to be gently consoled - it would not do to have to great a display of emotion. His mother seemed to tut in disapproval under her breath, her face an empty mask as cold as the wind roaring over the hilltop cemetery, and whistling between the low forest of tombstones and memorials.
No, ‘Emma Grunfeld does not cry’, he heard her mother’s austere voice saying in his mind. And neither did he.
Someone handed him a shovel.
