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I don’t know what it is about funerals and the weather. Well, Irish ones. We’re used to rain. It’s the west of Ireland; rain is what we do. But at funerals, every single one, it lashes down like it was personal.
My mother’s was no exception.
Never let up, just teemed like a bastard. A large crowd, mostly people from her church. At the grave, her old retainer, my old nemesis, Fr Malachy droned on about dust to dust. I looked at the faces of the assembled mourners. They were appropriately sad. Course, the incessant downpour wasn’t helping lift their spirits. As the only son, I was the chief mourner, but they managed to ignore me. If death brings a spirit of reconciliation, they weren’t privy to it. Finally, Malachy was done and sprinkled holy water on the casket. He looked at me, or ra
