My mother makes the best gravel.

My mother makes the best gravel.

We would rush to her side after she came home late from the pits. She would give a tired smile as we reached for the pocket in her bib-overalls. She saved the best gravel for us.

We treasured that gravel in the way that only early grievers can. We were all bicyclists and had no use for gravel, but this was Mom's gift to us, as she slaved in the pits to put

bacon on the table. Gravel was Mom's life, and death too. We built a gravel shrine with York stone chips, sea shingle and blue slate added for aesthetic effect. A gravel mosaic of

the priest talking about what a lovely person she used to be. No one noticed the stranger who joined the funeral, until he started laughing really, really loud. Then, all the

demons joined in, a deafening cataphony of hellish glee.The priest's eyes widened in horror as he watched the black hooded stranger glide up to her casket. Pointing his bony finger

at the beautifully carved casket, the dark hooded stranger spoke ominously in a deep, baritone voice to the wide-eyed priest, "You're next. How would you like to go?"

"I'd like to be blind folded please! But first, may I have a chocolate sundae? It's only fair," she quibbled next to the long casket. Carefully peering downward she waited

until a car passed. Jumping into his grave, she brought him the sundae. Even though they they were dead, didn't mean their romance was. She kissed his detached eyeball as they ate.