Theodore Roethke Christian 14 July 2006 The rain, which has been threatening for days, finally begins, spattering like bullets into the tarpaulin that covers the mound of soil at the graveside. Christian stands alone in the crowd of mourners, staring down as the coffin is lowered into the straight-edged grave. The prayers have been said, and the small stereo placed beside the grave is playing Rodrigo’s Aranjuez Concerto – the second movement. Remy’s favourite piece of music. The two women across the grave from him are staring and whispering. Stage-whispers, as subtle as a slap in the face. ‘…don’t understand what the old man was thinking …’ ‘He’s a street-kid, for God’s sake …’ The unaccustomed suit feels tight around his shoulders, and the collar irritates his neck, but he refuses to fidget or show any sign of discomfort. He is already under the microscope. The coffin reaches the bottom of the hole, and the straps are retracted. He looks down at the bunch of flowers in his hands.
