Farewell

It was nearly a day since he had died.

A muted, hoarse wail leaked through the gaps

of the thickly crowded windows

and door. They parted as I approached.

There were no men inside; only my father,

muttering to the big box, sinking to his knees

as his shaking legs could no longer hold him.

Rough hands clutched mine, and lazer eyes followed me

as I weaved my way through, when

my grandmother pulled me into her lap,

to whisper nonsense.

From there I saw, for the first time, beneath the fresh flowers,

the frail, limp body of my grandfather.

He looked quite peaceful for a dead man:

tender lids shut forever to this beautiful reality,

hearing no more the moaning cries of the living.

His thick, grey mustache was still visible,

a fearsome cover, as he smiled in his slumber,

though it always made me laugh. Even then.

I was not sad to see him nap; only my hands

itched to throw his blanket over the coffin’s cold.

Yet, a single tear spilled from my eye,

rolled down my cheek, and

dried before it hit the floor.

I still wonder, why?

A while later, a soft silence settled over the parade;

only the gravel crunching under the village’s soles

echoed the truth.

A greater man never walked the streets, they said.

still, the march led on to the graveyard.

They stopped us before we could enter, afraid of the

women’s whimpers and howls.

We were to moan elsewhere,

so half his admirers abandoned him.

Rounding the bend, I saw ash,

sifting along the August breeze, fairly serene;

and asked the bones, lovingly hidden:

who would call back the mirth, now goodbye bidden.