The spades hit the dirt one after the other forming a pleasant rhythm. They worked in silence as the dirt piled behind them grew. They hadn’t spoken many words since loading the truck and making the drive into the woods. They’d said a few words when picking out the spot, but once that was settled, they’d fallen into their customary silence.
At the outset it was easy and the dirt flew fast, but as they descended lower into the earth the ground was firmer, the digging harder. The older man’s pace began to flag, though he tried to work faster so his son wouldn’t notice his age, sweat still beaded on his forehead. He stepped out of the hole. His son looked up, and without a word went back to work.
Despite the cool shade of the trees his son’s shirt was damp and clinging to his muscled back. He admired the clean efficiency of his son’s powerful strokes. He felt old.
The mound grew higher as the sun rose. Neither man spoke as they alternated turns in the hole. They hadn’t talked about why they were here. It was understood between them. There was a job to do; they were doing it.
They never discussed more than the basics of the work, as they were on the same page of how to do things. The old man might explain a few peculiarities based on past experience, but for the most part the conversations were short.
When the hole was finished, they poured in two bags of lime, and then went to the bed of the truck for the body. They threw it in with another bag of lime covering it.
Sweat dripped from both as they bent back over their shovels and began to fill the hole in silence.
