I can hear the Whippoorwills in the night. Also, there is the sound of footsteps in the water. He is carrying me through the deep water, it comes up to his mid-thighs. I feel as if I am riding a horse, such is the strength that lifted me. I can see the glow of the moonlight as it glistens on the water. He carries me for my lack of strength. I know that we will reach safety. His certitude is comforting.

I realize that my mind has wandered. In the present moment, the sun shines, and the car door opens. There, in front of us is the task at hand. I vow to keep my mind and thoughts present, on what is current, what is the task of the day. Then I hear gunshots. I know that he is guilty. I know that he has only done what he was asked to do, but I know that it has borne on his mind and conscience ever since. I can smell the gunpowder, as it is released from the muzzle of the gun. I can see the impact of the bullet. I can hear the water once again.

"All lift!" is the order. There are six of us. We all lift together, the weight of steel and of empty flesh. We begin our short journey. It is only a few yards to the tent, and to the ones who wait, darkness in their eyes. We six adjust our steps, adjust the burden, to accommodate the shifting of the weight. So odd, that a life, once so solid and anchored, now swings to and fro so pliantly and uncertain. Tears well within me, and I begin to shudder. I don't let it show. All that shows is the simple stream from my eyes. I stand straight, I refuse to bend. I look ahead.

I can see the dawn. I can see the dawn that we have come to greet, and once again I can hear the gunshots. This time there is no water, there is snow. And we are tired. We are weary with fatigue. But we have come to do what we have come to do because it is our life. It is the way that we have always been. It goes deep with us, our common bond; our tie to those who have gone before us. Once again, my mind has wandered to a time connected to the present task only by the tears that I stifle. "Down!" is the order. In unison, the six of us are relieved that the task of carrying this weight is finished. We stand back to a fair distance, and the words of the present grow distant once again.

I can hear the voice calling me. He calls me to return. I run the other way. I know it's my time, but I run, and I hide. I know what I must do; I know that I must return. I know that there will be a price to pay. I know that I will surely answer for what I have done, not facing this moment. Does he understand?

The final blessing is finished. There is weeping, and there is sorrow. My duty of the day, to carry the weight, is finished. But the heaviest weight is still present, to be borne long past this day. It will always be present, neither dimmed by time nor by the fading of memory. As he is lowered, I know that it will always be mine. The heavier weight is conscience. The heaviest weight is grief.