The Funeral

The Funeral
by Daryl Ross Halencak

They called him Bug.
This flatlander was buried in a field full of blowing sand.
In this area, the poor had its own patch of dirt for burial purposes.
Nature was not kind to the lands on Texas’ Rolling Plains.
The sacred ground was full of weeds for the indigents.
And the town‘s people despised Bug.
Bug was considered indigent and white trash.


The funeral director did the best for this flatlander: shaved and prepped for the viewers.
Bug’s friends passed the hat for the wake.
The drunks collected about $200.
The cemetery was gathered with Bug’s drinking buddies.
When the preacher man saw them huddled together, the man of God looked this motley Congregation.
He hated drunkards.
He hated white trash.


At the service, the preacher man gave his usual sermon.
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust.
Burning coals are for the unrepentant.
Hallelujah! Jesus is coming!

Holy words were loud, Bible-inspired, with a Texas twang.
No one was listening.
The crowd waited for the end of his story about hell fires.
The lone singer did it the best he could for a man that he had never seen before.
The dirge whispered into the West wind.
No one heard the words in the song.


The flatland prairie took the gentle soul into the sandy loam.
The casket was placed into the earth.
People left.
And then, it was over.
Bug was dead.
No one cared, except white trash.

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