A Dead Man’s Words

The last air that I shall ever breathe had left me

And I could feel the cold creeping over me

I wanted to tell them to stop crying for me

But I knew that I shall never speak

I wanted to embrace them

But I knew that I shall never move

Alas! The good Lord had called my soul early

Many were the things left for me to do

But I knew that I shall never finish them

I was dressed in white linen and placed in a coffin

They put a crucifix on my chest

Then I was lifted and carried by tall men

The journey to the graveyard had begun

And it seemed ages before they laid the coffin on the fresh grass

I could see a priest bending over me

His lips moved in prayer but I knew that I shall never hear him

He threw some flowers on me and everyone did the same

It was time to close the coffin and

I strained to have a last glimpse of this beautiful world

But I was drowned in darkness and at that moment I thought-

From dust I came, to dust I return

True, for I could feel the men lowering me

Into the grave they had prepared for me

Lower and lower and lower I went

And then everything was still

After all:

I was a dead man.                 

It was a fine morning. The sun was bright as ever and the streets were busy as usual. I was at my mom's place for vacations.

While having my breakfast, my younger cousin came to me running and said, "A young man passed away yesterday. His house is down the lane. They are going to bury him today.' It was only the previous night that I was narrating one of my created horror stories to him about graveyards and spirits. And the death of this young man was a little disturbing. After all I was hardly 7 years old.

However, the two of us decided to accompany our uncle to the funeral. On entering the dead man's house, there was an eerie silence. It seemed like all the happiness in my life was drained out when I stepped in (more like the Dementor effect). There was weeping all around me. I held my uncle's arm tightly and my cousin clutched mine tighter.

After sometime, the casket was taken out and kept on a decorated hearse. There were altar boys holding candles and an elderly man stood between the two young boys, with a big silver cross lined with tiny bells. The people formed a procession led by the man with the cross. The hearse followed the cross and the people followed the hearse. So did my uncle, cousin and I. As we walked through the congested street, a hymn was being sung and prayers being chanted. Before I knew it, we had reached the church cemetry. A grave was already prepared for him, and a priest blessed the casket and few men helped to lower the coffin into the grave.

Minutes later, as we walked back to our house in silence, I thought about the entire incident. My 7-year-old mind imagined the dead man still being able to sense the happenings around him, I imagined what would that man say if he was given a chance to speak about his own funeral. The fact that he was dead and would never come back to life did not matter to me at that age. With time I stopped thinking about it.

An year later, in my Catechism class, which was more than 2000 miles away from that graveyard, my teacher was talking about death and she quoted a line from the Holy Bible-'From dust I came, to dust I return'. At that moment, I recalled the funeral of the dead man. But like a dying flame, my thoughts about the entire event died. However 7 years later, for reasons unknown to myself,  I sat down, on a cold December night, recalling the incident that took place more than 10 years before, to write down 'A Dead Man's Words‘.