What grabbed my arm?

One of the paths we followed on our way to our exploration sites led past a number of Christian burials.  These graves were burials like those found in European and American countries, with a headstone, often having a picture of the departed person.  Some were defaced; one had what had been a small cross, but the top part of the cross had been broken off.  Some had been removed, leaving an empty hole behind.

As we were returning from a day’s exploration, we walked down one of these paths.  Suddenly, as I stepped down on my left foot, there was nothing solid underneath it.  I was falling into an open grave.

At that moment, something grabbed my left arm, breaking my fall.  My foot touched the bottom of the grave, lightly.  I easily stepped out of the grave.

Then I looked around, thinking that one of the other workers had caught my arm, saving me from injury.  No one was behind me; all the workers were ahead of me.  I looked for a branch, limb of a tree, anything that my arm might have landed on, to break my fall.  Nothing.

Yet, something broke my fall.  I say no more.

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