This Is Not the End
I hoped no one would notice me. It was a fairly large group, about thirty in all, and I was wearing black like the rest. The immediate family would probably recognize me if they did notice: we had exchanged words over the months of the deceased's decline; I had invented a backstory about my own aunt's convalescence to explain my perennial presence.
The retarded man was also standing in the back, opposite me. He was about ten feet behind the tightly packed group of mourners. It had begun to rain, a terribly clichéd graveside drizzling rain, and the mourners were tightly packed under the funeral-home provided canopy. The retarded man stood in the rain, one arm wrapped around the other, which awkwardly pointed down. He constantly shifted on his feet, as if the sound of spattering rain had awakened his bladder in him and he was fighting its