The line of mourners twists out into the quiet parking lot.
Drops of rain streak against an ornate window, shadows
revealed through panes of green and yellow glass.
Near the doorway, our family name stands in black
letters on a dimly lighted sign. A last confirmation.
We gather around your body. The color of your skin
Stops our breathing for a moment, each one of us alone
with memories of you: the kitchen table, heavy ceramic
bowls filled with saucy pasta, bread being passed and torn,
ideas discussed over raised voices and Italian wine.
My sisters struggle to compose themselves, standing in line
for the third time in less than as many years; ivory silk blouses
dotted with mascara and lipsticks of neighbors.
Mary places an uneasy hand on Kristine’s arm. They turn
and look at each other, saying nothing.
The nephews stand around in borrowed death suits,
hair combed for the first time in weeks, faces streaming confusion.
Tomorrow, they will balance the weight of your casket
on their boyish shoulders.
Your poker buddies are here, gaunt and worn and sharing stories.
Get-togethers are promised over cigarettes in a room just past
the vinyl kneeling rail. Even my high school boyfriend
is here, wrapping his arms around me, just like on that first date.
Now, we’re hushed and ancient.
A final prayer is spoken. I stare at sculptured veins of gold
in the carpet under my feet. Out of the corner of my eye,
white and red carnations jammed into unnatural shapes.
Ribbons across them read: brother, father, uncle, grandfather.
The fragrant smell reminds me of Nana’s back yard: bed of poppies
on fire in July sunshine; sticky green juice of tomato vines on my hands;
aqua-blue barn where the stray cat had her kittens.
If I listen hard enough, I can hear them crying.
© Carrie Spadter, 1999. All rights reserved.
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