I genuflect
and wobble.
Incense stings my
throat.
Holy water splats
on her coffin.
Old voices, chanting,
float around me.
Dark, polished, hard wood
pews and walls.
Air is orange glow from
candles by the altar.
October cold, hiding
in the shade of the canopy
at the church cemetery, watching
Dad at the edge
of her grave.
Shoulders slumped. Looking down.
The last to leave her.
Three years later, December snow.
I hold his triangle-folded flag and
am the last to leave him
at the same cemetery.
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9 comments:
Evocative.
It seems that those days are recorded like still photos it the brain. Mostly just noise surrounding our numbness with flashbacks intruding at the oddest times.
Brings back both sorrow and release.
So sad.
Larry, that's exactly how I saw it when it demanded to be written. One photo at a time.
Lee, I still miss them both.
i feel like i was there.
i know you miss them. i miss mine too.
As long as the energy to live isn't supplanted by the memory of them gone before us then the remembrances of them are good, compelling and a spur for us to move on to the place where we become the elders of the clan.
sadness realized.
dang...
Foam, I hope this didn't upset you too much considering what you recently went through.
Mark, I wish they had lived longer but that wasn't in my control.
Berry, sorry, dear.
It always seems that these days are so clearly etched in our memories, all details so clearly defined in our minds, the colours, the faces, even the season of the year, all bring sorrow to our hearts but although the sorrow fades some, the pictures remain clear, as does the love.
Susie...exactly.
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