Photo by Possessed Photography on Unsplash

A curly blonde girl cradled a metal Band-aid box to her chest, and two tears slid down her cheeks. She peered into the heavy darkness of the small opening of the cave. A good place for a burial.

The box was prepared with care, layered with a flower-patterned paper towel.

She closed her eyes and remembered her friend, whispered a few words. The air chilled her hands as she dropped the box into the hole. There was a great air of silence. She didn’t know if the box hit the bottom of the cave. She never did.

The cave was not really a traditional cave, but a man-made cave. From above, it looked like a hill with two big metal doors on one end. A metal staircase descended into the damp darkness where crates of potatoes were stored. It always smelled like rain and potatoes.

Once, the cave protected their family when the storm turned the sky the color of pea soup. She knew there spiders down there, but she tried not to think about that.

She was too young to remember many funerals. She didn’t really understand them. People were sad. Words were said, and a box was lowered into the ground.

All she knew was the great ache when someone was gone. Like Uncle Bill.

Uncle Bill had been her grandparents’ hired hand. He came to their farm in Minnesota looking for work, and he stayed on for the rest of his life. He was born in Germany. Never married, but he had many girlfriends. He smoked, he drank, and he had a laugh that shook the rafters.

And he loved his adopted nieces and nephews. They loved him right back.

The little girl, her parents, sister, grandparents and Uncle Bill were on their way to Colorado cousin’s house for Easter. They rented a big van. The little girl felt like a rich kid, riding in a big playhouse with swiveling seats, big windows and space to stretch and play and not elbow her sister in a crowded backseat.

When they arrived in Colorado and she jumped out of the car. Something stopped her, and she turned back with all of her childlike innocence simmering like a boiling over pot. She hugged Uncle Bill and told him “I love you.” He said it back, his eyes shimmering.

A few hours later, the girl and her cousin jogged to Uncle Bill’s room to tell his supper was ready. They found him laying awkwardly on the floor. Her mother was a nurse and tried to save him, but he was already gone. It was Good Friday.

The little girl didn’t understand why it was called Good Friday. She lost Uncle Bill, and it didn’t feel all that good.

The girl did not yet understand that there is always an Easter after Good Friday. Even in the darkest, saddest moments there would be light. The dark cannot outlast the light of Easter. There is joy and goodness and hope.

While today doesn’t feel all that good, hope and love will spring forth again like green blades of grass cutting through the brown, dead foilage. Life will go on, and it will be beautiful again.

The ground beneath her knees has a damp, spring smell. She rose up, dusted the grass clippings off her knees and crossed her chest like the minister does at funerals.

Her mother says animals don’t have souls. The little girl does not agree. She knows God told humans to take care of his creation. All creation. She whispered, “Good-bye Goldie. You were a beautiful fish.”