THE YEW TREE

A woman barely out of her teens stood in the graveyard, pale faced, eyes hard, mouth a determined line.  The open grave was the first in a new line, the hole deep, it had to be.  Nearby the presence of the eternal yew tree mocked her.  The only other living person at the graveside was the ageing minister.  He finished his clear voiced prayer and turned to her; “Is there anything you want to say?”

“There is actually!” she addressed the coffin at the bottom of the deep hole; “you complete and utter shit!  You broke my heart!  I bet you’re sorry now!”
“He died out of love for you,” protested the Minister.
“But he broke me first.”
“You’re very bitter.  I feel I’m burying your innocence with him.”
“Well, say another prayer for me then, because there’s a man waiting at the lych gate.”
The Minister watched her go towards the slight man who kept a respectful distance.

The woman barely out of her twenties stood in the graveyard, pale faced and red eyed.  The open grave was the second in line, the hole shallower than last time because the gravedigger was overworked.  Nearby the presence of the eternal yew tree mocked her.  The only other living person at the graveside was the old minister.  He finished his faint voiced prayer and turned; “Is there anything you want to say?”

“Oh God!  I’m sorry!” she said to the coffin at the bottom of the shallow hole; “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened.  I loved you, then suddenly I didn’t.”
“I feel that I’m burying your hope with him.  You’re very distressed.”
“Father, please, say another prayer for me, because there’s a man waiting at the lych gate.  It wasn’t meant to be, it just happened.”
The Minister held up his hand, he didn’t want to know.  He watched her go towards the dark man who kept a respectful distance, but on catching the minister’s eye, he raised a bottle of scotch in a toast and downed some of it.

The woman barely out of her thirties stood in the graveyard, pale faced, wide eyed, muttering incoherently, clutching a bottle of whisky.  The open grave was the third in the line, the hole shallower than last time because the ancient Minister had to dig it himself.  After his mumbled prayer he asked; “Is there anything you want to say?”

“Uh no, just bury him,” she said.
“You look so sad.  I feel I’m burying your youth and joy.”
“Look, I’m in a hurry, because there’s ...”
“A man waiting at the lych gate?”  The minister turned and sure enough there was, a tall man in a black coat, no bottle of scotch in the hand of this one, but a parchment and feather quill.
“To record your wrongs,” the minister intoned.
“What?” she asked distracted, fidgeting.
“That man is known to me,” he gestured to another line of graves that stretched on beyond the eternal yew tree.