Buried On Sunday Page

"Late to his own party," she whispered as the pallbearers stumbled slightly on the slick grass.

Silas had passed on a Tuesday, mid-breath while pruning his prize roses. For five days, he sat in the chilled cellar of the local mortician, Mr. Gable, who spent the week polishing the mahogany casket until he could see his own tired eyes in the grain. Buried on Sunday

The procession was a quiet affair of black umbrellas, looking like a cluster of beetles scuttling toward the open earth. Silas’s widow, Martha, didn't cry. She held a single white rose, its edges browning from the wait. "Late to his own party," she whispered as

When Sunday morning finally broke, it brought a heavy, rhythmic rain—the kind that turned the churchyard soil into a hungry, dark porridge. Gable, who spent the week polishing the mahogany