YOUR DAD (An Original Poem)
It was a small town send off
for your father's childhood friend,Edward,
who dropped dead suddenly at 50,
after raking yard leaves one last time.
We went home to support your folks.
Dad was pale and stoic. Mom was sad and fluttery
like a bird unable to find a perch.
He was so young, we heard over and over.
It was a chatty wake where Edward
was another guest, speechless in the front
of the room, but a commanding presence nonetheless.
Dad avoided the open coffin.
Instead, he turned his back to it and consoled
Edward's widow and children,
Mom hugged family and friends and watched Dad,
worried at his stony calm.
The funeral was the next day.
The bearers hoisted the wooden coffin on
their shoulders and folded their hands in front.
They slowly marched into the small
white church in the middle of corn fields.
The fields were picked dry skeletons covered in
post-harvest chaff: discarded cobs, husks, and stalks.
After the pastor spoke of eternal reward,
the children spoke of their father's life.
The widow's shoulders shook in the front pew.
Then the bearers bore him back to the hearse,
and that black and silver engine led a train of cars
down the serpentine back roads to the cemetery.
At the grave site, the coffin rested
on top of old-fashioned straps and boards,
over a grave his sons had hand-dug the day before.
It was a very cold October, see-your-breath cold,
and we stood shivering in deep piles
of red-gold autumn leaves as the
minister led a final prayer, his bible clutched
to his chest, as he prayed from memory.
The bearers lifted the casket with the straps,
others quickly removed the boards,
and we watched Edward descend
into the ground,as the men slowly released
the straps in unison.
Somewhere overhead a crow cawed over and over
and I imagined Edward tracking the black bird's path,
and then taking flight himself, soaring with joy,
looking down on us, confused by the grief.
One by one, we sprinkled dirt and rose petals
into the grave and paused for a final Goodbye.
We drove back in silence, then you reached for my hand
and squeezed. At the American Legion Hall they had
a luncheon, where family and friends shared
warm and funny stories about Edward. The family
smiled at the memories and the healing began.
After dessert, I escaped out back to the garden
to walk in the cold, fresh air and clear my head.
At the other end of the garden,
your Dad leaned against an old oak tree,
his right arm wrapped around it
like he was holding on for dear life.
His head was bowed and his shoulders shook.
His racking sobs carried out on the cold air,
chasing me as I hastily turned
and retreated back to the Hall.
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