A strong wind swept through the cemetery, shaking the casket as it sat waiting to be lowered into the gaping earthen maw.
She could see worms slithering in and out of their burrows in the dirt piled up to the side of the casket; all the rain they'd had recently had stirred them up; the digging of her father's grave only agitated them further.
Five people were in attendance, counting herself. Mr. Isaacs, the executor of her father's estate--if a rat-hole of an apartment with thread bare furniture and a few shelves of books could be called an estate--and his wife.
Dale Barnett, who'd been her father's in-home nurse for the last few months of his life.
Father Tierney, from St. Agatha's, who her father had requested to perform the funeral. ("Since when was dad a Catholic," she'd asked her mother on the phone the day before, "I never remember him going to church." And she'd gotten the reply "You can take the Catholic out of the Church
Father Tierney spoke now, reading fr