The black man stood a fair distance from the group of mourners at the gravesite. His nervous fingers worried the soft hat in his hands. He was dressed in his Sunday best – a worn blue suit, freshly pressed. The occasion demanded it.
It wasn’t every day a man buried his father.
He couldn’t make out the minister’s words, but Moody guessed the content. His old man had been a pillar of the Schuyler Falls Methodist Church. Moody watched the faithful dab their eyes.
People only see what they want to see, he thought.
Not so when it came to Granny Ella, standing ramrod straight at the foot of her son’s grave, eyes fixed on something only she could see.
No fake sentiment there.
She knew too well the stiff-necked nature of the man being buried.
Finally the service ended and Moody watched as Granny Ella and the others…
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