#Haibun: Death

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February 18,1994
 
Chilling cold, a slate grey day. As we step from the hearse the rain, with an audible sigh of relief from the burgeoning sky, begins. People come forward, offer umbrellas.
Nothing penetrates the mask I wear, not the rain, not the cold, only the gaping emptiness of loss. As we make our way to the grave, the bagpipes haunt my every step on the lush wet grass- Amazing Grace. The rain dulls the music, it’s as if it drops into the grave below the coffin, looking for shelter. From the rain and from the pain. I want to follow it into the earthy, dark gaping hole.
Adorning the casket is a magnificent cascading spray of snow white roses. In the center of them all, a single blood red rose. From me, for love.

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