My heart failed me, when your casket, rather the cheap box that would burn quickly, slowly went into the flames.
I knew you were not hot, warm or cold. You were long gone-seconds, minutes, days.
I was the one there, burning. Face pressed against the cool imitation marble walls, in the nook around the corner. I could not sit on that hard bench, purposely set just so, allowing for the bereaved to still feel engaged yet not actually see the casket go into the flames.
I heard it. The subtle grinding of the gears.
We all do, even through our weeping.
It sounds the joints of the aged, as they creep on, stumbling towards the Bethelhem in their heads.