The congregation leans forward and holds its collective breath as they strain to pick out the sound to which the minister has alluded. There is a pause, a heartbeat of silence, and then: clunk.
I heard it!
Something moved!
It's not dead!
Everyone is scrambling now, grief and dignity forgotten as they muddy their best blacks to reattach ropes. They heave, straining to raise the casket back from the depths in which they were about to bury it. Slowly, slowly it inches above the grass until, at last, the sweating, desperate crowd can lay it gently on the surface once more.
Once more there is a moment of expectant silence. The people shuffle closer, searching for any sign to confirm that what they heard was real.
Clunk.
Gasps and murmurs of excitement ripple through the gathering. Two men step forward. They brush aside the soil marring the inlaid brass proclaiming the occupant's name and begin prying away the lid with tools designed for digging graves. It isn't easy, and every crack of the wood elicits winces from the anxious onlookers, but with a final, ear-splitting squeal of metal parting from wood the lid falls away.
A hush falls. Even the minister moves in to get a better view of the occupant: still, unmoving. Seeing it like this, doubt creeps into the back of his mind, the same doubt he is certain is beginning to gnaw at everyone gathered. Before anyone can give voice to their fears, however, a woman steps up to the coffin and reaches in a hand. She checks for a pulse.
Hearts are in throats as she looks up with tears in her eyes, but with a smile uncontrollably plastered on her face. She nods - just a nod - and the crowd erupts. Tears of joy flow freely and the unfamiliar sound of laughter fills the cemetery.
People spring into action. A car is brought closer, and the two men lift the miraculously still-living blog into it. The woman accompanies it on the way to get help - a doctor, or perhaps a more dedicated writer. Everyone else is making calls or sharing the moment with their loved ones, before they, too, depart to spread the news or prepare their own visits to the blog as soon as it can receive visitors.
Eventually, only the minister is left. Slowly, he closes his book and sets it aside. He walks sombrely to the casket, pondering the significance of what has just occurred.
Ashes to ashes, he muses.
He lowers himself to the ground by the lid. With considerable effort, his ageing hands manage to flip it face-up once more.
No joy without sorrow, he thinks, wiping away a fresh stain from the brass plaque to read the words more clearly.
Tiny Works of Art
A blog gone before its time.
No life without death.
His gaze wanders back to the exhumed casket. Perhaps that rule just doesn't apply to this blog. This isn't the first time this has happened.
[That's right, I'm starting this craic again. Happy painting everyone!]
[That's right, I'm starting this craic again. Happy painting everyone!]
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