The Drive

The wiper blades move in rhythmic motion across the cracked windshield that grows more opaque with every breath I expel.
The air is hot and sticky inside this car, the natural humidity adding to my fowl mood.

"Focus," I tell myself though in truth that is near impossible to do, the rain and the low elevation coming together in a torrent that masks the lines of the road, leaving my efforts rendered only as guesswork and faith.

Beyond lies my destination, a decrepit old home where generations of my family had had their wake's before their internment in the family plot three blocks down.

It was a tragically short drive from the home to the plot, but after a six hour wake, I have found that all respect for the deceased ends as people just want the coffin in the ground and their car heading to the nearest restaurant.

It is only once I get to the funeral that I realize I don't know the person.

"No matter," I say to myself. "A hole is a hole after all. What matter is it of anyone's what goes in it?"

They say she was my mother. I look at the body and wonder why we look so different when we die.