The arch of the parish doors is round, and the glow they emit
is a befitting symbol of a threshold, of what it is to cross from life back to death. The funeral attendees gather and walk behind the hearse under the gloomy rain of sentiment and cold droplets of an august downpour. I hear my mother exhale, her face reddened by a cloak of head-tilting sorrow. someone who cannot be replaced has died that is what I make of the bird's chirping on this day ( and of mother's downward gaze.)