He worked in the graveyard at least three times a week and his routine was always the same. First, he stopped at the chosen location, unbuttoned his coat, and took off his newsboy cap, smoothing his hands over his gray hair, once on each side, then four times down the middle. Then he made the sign of the cross over his chest and bowed his head, his cap clutched over his heart. After a long minute, he looked up at the sky, put his cap back on, pulled his shovel out of the wheelbarrow and started digging, stopping only long enough to lift a rock over the edge of the hole or switch from a shovel to a pick. He didn’t stop until the hole was dug and the pile of dirt beside it was free of roots and stones. When the job was finished, he took off his cap, smoothed his hair again, wiped his brow, and put his cap back on. Even on the days when he raked leaves or cut the grass, he worked nonstop until the job was complete. While the weeks passed and Clara felt herself giving up and growing weaker, she marveled at the gravedigger’s stamina.
