“I’M SO SORRY for your loss.”
A hand grabbed Caisey’s and tugged until she was sitting. The wooden bench was so cold it crept into her and froze her spine. Someone sang an old hymn in the clipped way British people pronounce words. Grams had sung those words many times, kneeling in the dirt in their back garden. Pulling weeds and praising God, singing about sin being removed.
A tear snaked down Caisey’s cheek, tickling her dry skin. Tissue touched her cheek and she turned her face toward the comfort.
“The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”