Why does it always rain at funerals?

(I wrote this after a funeral of someone very precious to me. The mention of her name doesn't make me cry anymore, but this did, when I found it today, in a file on my old computer.)

Dead Rain

The granite edge of the sky flung down rain the color of depression.
It slashed its gray fingernails across the stain-dark raincoats,
Needling into the black arches of umbrellas.
I huddle in the weighty depths of my brother's green army coat,
My eyes and nose sliding into an expanding black stain on the sleeve.
Huge chunks of memory are being ripped out of my throat,
As I watch my big, strong brothers shoveling the sodden dirt into the grave,
Tears and rain cutting lines as gray as pencil lead across their faces.

The dirt thuds onto the casket, as heavy as suicide.