Teardrops on a Grave

The sky is crying. One friend, buried, two friends, watching. Wet leaves trampled underfoot, crushed into the soaking mire that is the cemetery. Naked trees, fingered branches reaching, grasping like the hand on the heart Heavy clothing, drenched, pressing on hunched backs Black, everywhere, clothing, armbands, veils. Far too much black. A dark mirror, the clouds weep. Teardrops fall on a grave.
     A child clothed as a man speaks.
"He was a good man."
     Silence.
"A good friend to all of us."

"May he rest in peace."
     Tension. Where from? The speaker shifts his eyes, searching for the source. Finds it    
     in the man beside him. Grasps his friend by the shoulder.
"He will be missed."
     Pause. The friend whirls.
"You're damned right he will!"
     Shock. Unexpected, irreverent. Was he not a friend? He turns upon the huddled
     watchers.
"You didn't know him! None of you!"
     A bold accusation. Painful.
"You'll miss him, but the pain will fade away! You'll recall his name, but his face will disappear!"
     Uncomfortable truths. He doesn't stop.
"And you'll be right! He'll be gone, the world will go on, your lives will go on. Nothing will have changed!"
"But it doesn't matter,"
     He turns back to the first speaker.
"He'll live on in our hearts; we'll remember what he did."
"Bullshit."
"What?"
"You heard me the first time."
     The friend stands tall, alone among those slouched by the weather. A breath before he
     begins.
"'He was a good man,' you say, but does that capture him? Does that capture his thoughts, his hopes, his dreams? Does that capture every time he thought he could change the world, make it a better place? Does it capture why he fought, or the day he decided that if by his death another might live, so be it? 'Many who live deserve death, and many who die deserve life" – did he deserve death, then, so that another could deserve to live for him? And his other thoughts, what about those? Everyone has them. Lust, greed, pride…we all know these friends well. Is he a good man, then, despite that? What makes a man good? How can such a thing describe a man?"
     His cries echo among the silent tombstones. They have no answer for him. The sky
     weeps, and its tears mingle with the wetness on his face.