Thundering Echoes of Silence

The gentleness of the rain does nothing to increase its warmth. The sky is leaden gray, and the gathering, though not large, is unnaturally quiet. The birds no longer sing in the trees, and the only sound is the pitter-patter of small cold raindrops, as they fall on black umbrellas and on the thin blue canvas stretched over the mound of dirt next to the hole.

One by one, single red roses are laid atop the little white casket. The rose petals are being stripped from the flowers by the rain, and as they tumble they leave thin red streaks down the sides of the tiny box that now holds a piece of my soul.

My heart now has a cavity that will never be filled, and I understand what real loss is, and a pain that no parent or grandparent should ever have to endure.

“The only thing harder to endure than the absence of your presence, is the enduring presence of your absence.”

-- Grandpa loves you little boy . . . forever.