“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” he said.
The young brother and sister team worked through the night, quietly, calmly. The earth overturned neatly as the shovels made their way. Dig. Lift. Repeat. It was methodical, melodic even, the way the shovels sounded when they broke ground, and the low sounding thud of the wet dirt.
The pair exchanged a glance as their work neared its ending, the hole in the soil a product of several hours of work. It was deep enough that they had to take a ladder in with them. They had to have ample room indeed, for their father was fat.
They made their way out, threw the shovels on the ground, and dragged their father’s bagged, broken body to the mouth of the hole.
Their eyes met a second time, each looking for a sign of doubt in the other, testing their sibling’s resolve and character. When no weakness was found, they chucked the body in, and grabbed their shovels.
“You mean you can’t believe we’re doing this again,” she said, as they began to close the grave.