Something had been nagging at my brain all day, but for the life of me I couldn’t bring it out into the open. At my age, memory is fast becoming a thing of the past. To paraphrase someone else—I can’t remember who— ‘memory is just too precious to be wasted on the young.’
Was it something my wife had asked me to do? No, that couldn’t be it; she’d died three years before. I’d given her a good send-off; she’d have enjoyed it.
Remembering her gravestone beside the village church triggered my brain: I’d promised the vicar I’d weed-whack the graveyard before the funeral on Saturday, and it was already late on Friday!
When I got there, the graveyard was empty, so I set to work in the gathering dusk. Like my memory, my eyesight’s not what it used to be, which is probably why the ground suddenly gave way beneath my feet as I fell headlong into the open grave, all ready for Saturday’s festivities.
Six feet is a long way down; too far for me to climb, even with the weed-whacker to help me. And there was no one to hear my shouts, so I lay down and fell asleep. The next thing I knew was the vicar intoning: ‘And the dead shall arise.’ So I stood up. Caused quite a stir.