That wet summer Sunday afternoon the small congregation respectfully filed from the church and out into the cemetery; solemnly following the flower - bedecked casket being carried aloft toward the awaiting plot. With umbrellas and high collars shielding them from the constant drizzling rain, they listened dutifully to the sermon at the graveside. The old widow threw a handful of soggy soil on top of the coffin. Almost immediately, and to everyone’s relief, the rain eased as the gloomy clouds shifted under a steady breeze, allowing rays of sun to filter through. As her tears were washed away by the last remnants of drizzle, the congregation gathered around the widow in a gesture of comfort and support.

The son placed a caring arm around her shoulders. “It’s alright Mother,” he said, “He’s at peace now. Dad wouldn’t want you to be sad. He had a good run; he said so himself.” Pointing at the breaking sunshine he added, “Look, he’s done that for you. He’s fine now.”

The old widow smiled and sighed, “I know, it’s just that we were only here at this very church a few months ago for the christening of your youngest. It’s like one life ends and another starts.”

Her son nodded in silence and kissed her cheek.

The small group milled around her and in turn offered their condolences and commiserations.

“It’s very sad dear, but at least he went peacefully,” offered one old girl.

The widow acknowledged their kind words but couldn’t help reflecting that the sixty-five years from her wedding day to this day seem to have simply flown by. They always said it would, she mused. How right they were.

“Where has it all gone?” she asked.

“Where’s what gone, Mother?” her son asked.

“The time, son,” she replied, “the time.”

“I know, I know,” he sighed. “Come on. Let’s get you back home before the rain starts again.”

The congregation made small talk as they made their way to the awaiting cars. Violet and Doris were not relatives and could hardly be described as friends of the bereaved family, but as neighbours they thought they ought to show support at a time like this. Although they would never admit to it, the prospect of a free funeral lunch had not played an inconsiderable part in their decision to console their neighbour.

“It was a lovely service.” said Violet.

“Oh it was, it was,” answered Doris, fussing with her headgear “I’m glad the rain has stopped; it’s a new hat.”

Pointing to the graveside, Violet asked, “Aren’t the flowers nice?”

“Oh they are; they really are,” Doris answered. She pondered for a moment then added, “Mind you, she will have got them cheap, y’know; her daughter works for that florist in town.”

 “Mmm,” Violet mumbled in agreement, “I wonder what the food will be like?”

“Well they ought to put on a good spread,” commented Doris, “They can afford it. I mean to say, he didn’t leave her short, did he?”

The pair carried on their catty conversation as they approached the vehicles waiting to take them to the reception.

“Did you see his colour?” asked Doris.

“The embalmers have done him proud,” explained Violet, “He never looked as good as that when he was alive.”

Doris objected, “I don’t know Violet, he did play a lot of golf. In fact he was playing only last week.”

“A bit much at his age, don’t you think? Look where he is now.”

“Oh, I never thought of that,” said Doris. “I dare say you’re right.”

Violet answered haughtily, “I will be.”

The small group were joined by a morose looking man of about forty years of age, who although dressed in a smart but casual way looked a little out of place being the only male there sans suit and black tie. He seemed quite distraught and approached the widow as she dabbed her face with a handkerchief. Gently taking her hand in his, he said, “I am very sorry for your loss my dear; very sorry.”

“Er, thank you,” replied the surprised widow.

The man embraced her and with a bandaged hand, gently patted her back in a comforting gesture.

Looking on, Violet said, “Hmm…don’t know that one.”

“Friend of the family?” Doris mused.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” answered Violet.

The man unfolded the widow from his embrace, and with a smile turned around and walked away.

The son looked at his mother. On his face you could read the silent question. She just shrugged her shoulders in mute reply.

The drivers stood to attention by their vehicles waiting for people to get in, but Doris and Violet were dallying, looking at the smartly dressed but morose man walking off the path and toward the side of the church.

Renovations had been in progress that week and scaffolding had been erected alongside the church and leading to the top of the spire some two hundred feet above. Upon reaching the ladder attached to the scaffolding the man began to climb as quickly as his injured hand would allow.

Both women looked on bemused. “What’s he up to?” one asked.

“Dunno, but it looks a bit odd,” the other answered.

“What does?” asked one of the limousine drivers.

The two women pointed to the man climbing the scaffolding ladder.

Everyone delayed getting into the cars as their curiosity was aroused.

Several minutes later the man had reached the top of the ladder. He stepped off and onto a scaffolding deck at the base of the church spire.

The crowd below watched as he sat down on the deck with his feet dangling over the edge. “What’s he doing?” one asked.

Up above, the distraught man looked down upon the scene below and shaking his head, dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief. Reaching into his pocket he produced a photograph. Dabbing his watering eyes he cried out in anguish, “Why….. why? Please God; just answer me.” He sat with head in hands just sobbing.