Even Cherubs Fall

Even Cherubs Fall

Her black dress was spotted with purple and white flowers, draped to her ankles. Her cheeks were spotted with tears; her forehead, with sweat. A condensed ball of crumpled, soggy tissues peeked through her fingers as she stared down into the oblong hole. Surrounding it were small stone cherubs, pinwheels, pacifiers, and photographs; dirty and worn, older than those resting below them.
Kneeling, I picked up the cream colored casket, painted with branches of cherry blossoms, no longer or wider than a serving platter; no heavier.
The woman began to sniff more as I slowly leaned forward.
Her chest shuttered. She whimpered.
I gently lowered the container, down into the hole, and she lunged. Arms out, grabbing at my wrists, her knees pressing her dress in dirt. My hands squeezed the edges of the lid, keeping it closed. She screamed at me, "That's my baby! My baby!"