Calls of a Cello's Mellow Strings

by ChaoticHarmony

First published January 1st, 1970 00:00

It's a stereotypical thing, snow at a funeral. Though I suppose it would be rain more often than not.

Perhaps the bitter cold outside is some Celestia-given gift to keep me from pondering about the cold that freezes me from the inside.

It is a shame that it doesn't.

Chapters

I'll Never Be Good Enough, Father?

I'll Never Be Good Enough, Father?
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Calls of a Cello's Mellow Strings

I'll Never Be Good Enough, Father?

[}—–{ 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.