The sun begins its slow descent as I open my door. I look and I see men walking down the street in black suits wearing bowlers, carrying babies in small white gowns-the babies are cooing, the men weeping; as they walk 3 abreast and single file. There are papers pinned to their backs with messages written in Yiddish. They pass by and the sound of their feet echoes in my head. I follow… them. The men tip their hats as they pass the cemetery, their hearts flying at half mast. I run up and try to read the papers pinned to their backs. One of the men shews me away, his face is gray, a new moon. The procession picks up the pace, faster and faster, they are now running. I try to keep up with the men wearing bowlers, that are weeping, carrying the babies that are giggling louder. I watch them getting smaller at the horizon until they are gone.
A light faint ash falls on my shoulder. It begins to rain