Iain Kelly

The minister finished the eulogy. Quiet, soft piano music faded up and filled the hush. A low electronic hum started, the wheels of the conveyor gradually turning.

He was supposed to have protected him. That was his job, to be the rock, the guardian against all that the world could throw at them. He had failed.

He stood up and managed to control his shaking legs. He could hear the whispers and pitiful mutterings behind him as he stepped forward.

He placed a hand on the small coffin. He tried to comprehend that he would never feel that soft skin again, never experience that childish glee, never see that shining smile.

The tears came, a miserable sob. One last embrace, one last kiss, one last walk with his son’s tiny hand held in his rough palm.

The wooden box began to move along the belt, doors opened as it approached…

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About Jonathan Caswell

Mr. Caswell has been composing poetry at least since High School. He has been on WORD PRESS for ten years and contributes to two other blogs beside this one. This blog has a Christian emphasis but all bloggers are welcome. Mr. Caswell chooses to---with permission--re[post material of interest

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