[}—–{ Calls of a Cello's Mellow Strings }–—{]

Words can hurt, or they can inspire.  In my case, I should like to believe both to be true.

As I stand over Father's grave, I can't help but notice all of the tiny little details that dotted its surface.  A chip in the granite, no doubt originating from a careless worker dropping it or handling it roughly.  A few weeds growing in one of the corners, products of a lazy gravedigger, who would be content with tossing in the same, grass-infested dirt that he had just dug out.  A place where the hooves of the pastor had scuffed at the polished plaque atop the freshly turned earth as he trotted symbolically over the grave, showing a physical sort of "passing" through one world into the next.  It's amazing what a pony notices when they're at a funeral.