The rhythm of the two shovels went in and out of frequency. For a while, they sang together, then one would slow, the clods of earth they cast no longer falling as one. Yet, time brought them back together. Time brings things back. As the roaming stars, each in his own peculiar orbit, following their disparate patterns must at times align, and as those two shovels must, after falling out of synch, anon align, I knew the patterns of my life would bring me back to this place; I knew, when we buried him, that I would dig him up.
Drabble Series: The Exhumation
Tale Told 