The watching crows sat cackling in the skeletal trees as a cold October wind blew through the graveyard as Mr. Brannigan was put into the ground and laid to rest.
We stood a ways back from the black-veiled Widow as she stepped forward and dropped her small posy of flowers onto the coffin as it was lowered then stooped down to grab a handful of dirt and threw it into the grave.
My Mother crossed herself as she turned and made her way back to the small white church that sat atop a windy hill surrounded on all sides by the remains of those whose journey had come to an end.
Most of the local rural community had turned out to pay their respects to old man Brannigan who had been well regarded in life as a hard working and hard drinking man of God who did right by you if you did right by him. Brannigan had been pushing fifty when he went. He had been a tall, solemn man of few words and who farmed his piece of land from dawn to dusk to make a living for him and his young wife.
I looked over to where Mrs. Brannigan stood surrounded by those offering their condolences and our local Pastor who was giving her words of comfort in her time of distress. The woman was dressed all in black from top to toe and only the shadows of her face could be seen through her veil.
Mrs. Brannigan had always been in my life. Her family lived about a mile outside of town and my earliest memories of her were of a teenage girl with long flowing sawdust hair when they came to stock up with supplies at McGinty's General Store in their beat up truck. There she'd be with her folks, the Caulders, and she'd jump down running around helping out as they loaded up.
She looked as pretty as a picture and must have been about eighteen I figured which to a then five-year-old like me made her seem as old as the hills. But even back in those days, I always knew there was something about her.
From memory, it was a couple of years later when word went around that she had gotten engaged to someone from way up North. A man called Silus Brannigan who was twenty years her senior. As with most things in a small town like this, rumor and gossip were the order of the day and various tall tales were told about the where and why this had all come about. Their eventual marriage a month later was a private family affair and for the rest of us life pretty much went on as usual as the days turned into months that became years.
Her name was Mary Beth. Mary Beth Caulder.
***
Most of the mourners had moved on as Uncle Joe and I stood there waiting for the Widow Brannigan to finish talking with some of the townsfolk that knew her.
Uncle Joe was a gruff man with a buffalo temperament and a build to match. He had moved in a few years back to try and put down some roots. The old man had long since gone to God knows where to leave Mom having to look after our farm and raise me on her own. I had been just twelve when he disappeared one Saturday in June and as the years had passed came to learn that he was a weak-willed man who hated responsibility and loved his drink. The extra pair of hands had been a Godsend and Uncle Joe settled into the routine of farm and rural life.
He gave me a nudge and I looked up to see the woman in black and a female companion approaching us as we stood there in our Sunday best holding our hats respectfully in front of us.
She took my Uncle's hand first and thanked him for coming and then she turned as she looked at me through her veil. It had been an age since I last saw her and only had vague memories of what she looked like.
"You must be Thomas," she said, taking my hand in hers. Her grip was firm and strong, "My, you've grown," she smiled, "How old are you now?"
" Nearly eighteen, Ma'am," I said as I stood there as red as a pickle in a vinegar jar, "I'm uh, sorry for your loss, Mrs. Brannigan."
She simply nodded and let go of my hand, "Thank you. My late husband always used to say that when God knocked on your door it was time to reap what you had sown in this life and hoped it was enough to get you into the next. For the rest of us, the sun will still come up tomorrow and life will go on. Thank you for your condolences."
We both watched as she turned to walk back to the Church where the Undertaker sat on the headboard of the wooden wagon waiting to take her back home.
"Tough one, that one," said my Uncle as he pulled on his black hat and began to walk towards our truck, "Never saw much of her when he was alive and will probably see less of her now that he's dead."
I stood there staring at her with the stiff breeze ruffling my thick black hair. What my Uncle said was true enough. Life was pretty isolated out here in the back of beyond. Neighbours pretty much kept themselves to themselves only meeting up if there was an emergency, a social dance, or if they were in town on business.
Schooling and the age difference was also a thing. Thirteen or fourteen years is a big old river to cross all things considered. She would have been leaving school just as I was starting I figured. At seventeen, I had finally finished with school and could now concentrate on the farm full time.
I took a deep breath and put my hat on as I gazed around at the rows of crosses and weather-worn stones silently asking those in life to remember them in death. For some reason, I turned and walked back to the open grave as one of the journeymen began to fill in the dirt. Six feet down was a plain, simple oak coffin and I stared at the flowers scattered on top of it.
The wind whistled through the trees as I turned my head to watch the wagon carrying the Widow leaving the graveyard and head out onto the never ending road that disappeared into the far distance. My eyes fixed on the small figure sat huddled against the cold and somehow knew our paths would cross again.
High up in the branches of the bare trees, the murder of crows watched in silence as the wheels of fate slowly began to turn.
***
It was three months later when the first Winter storms in nearly seven years hit the region and left a thick quilt of deep snow as far as the eye could see whichever way you looked. Thankfully, we had already stocked up for the season and the barn was full of everything we would need to get us through to Spring.
It had gone mid-morning and the sun was bright as it hung in the slate grey skies with the freezing air cold enough to take the breath away. Mom was in the kitchen making a rabbit and potato stew with my Uncle in the shed chopping logs for the fire as I cleared away the snow in front of the house. Suddenly there was a dull "Honk Honk" in the distance and I looked up to see a battered old Ford slithering its way up the long driveway towards our house.
The car pulled up as its hood gently steamed in the cold. It was Ned Beckett, one of the major store owners in town and he got out of his motor looking like an Eskimo. I leaned on my shovel as he stood in front of me jumping up and down on the spot to warm himself up.
"Hey, Tom," he shouted above the grumbling sound of the car engine, "Last night was a doozy, wasn't it!" He reached into his overcoat pocket and pulled out his pipe and stuck it into his mouth as he tried to light it with a match.
"Yes Sir," I nodded, "Pretty bad. What are you doing out this far?" I asked him.
