I dress, drive, then arrive.
They enter–nervous, queasy
Wishing they were elsewhere.
So do I.
Checking urns of flowers
Searching for their card
Comparing their bouquets
To those of others.
A snake-like, never-ending queue
Of friends–strangers now, for
Eyes avert the tomb-like
Womb-like home to you.
They fidget and they memorize
The words they plan to say.
Don’t speak, just face me,
Embrace me, look into my eyes.
But then they ask:
“When, how,
Did he suffer much?”
Wouldn’t you? Aren’t I?
“You have your family now”
“My aunt lived a short while
I took it very hard”
Silent scream–absurdity
Instead I only smile.
“If there is anything you lack
Don’t hesitate to call–
we’ll all be here for you.”
Then bring my husband back.
They file by–they sigh, or nod
“When he closes a door
He opens a window”
Where is my window, God?
Jan Chapman
April, 2010
Speak Your Mind