My father died 3 years ago, last week.
Last 3/10/2009
I picked Dad up at the discount
crematorium next to the ersatz Taco Bell
across from the lumber yard and going out
of business furniture store almost
kitty corner from the brake shop
Why pay more? asked the flyer on the counter
before the black dress girl wearing pierce blue
eyes came out and asked my license and two
signatures I guess to make sure I could drive him home
Outside the door the shaggy hedge last
trimmed from the look of it last
fall sprouts pink and white blossoms
guards the glass door from the park lot
while inside choice pendants urns and little memento boxes can
peek meek from cases
what’s it like to work with death every day
what do you go home to
what do you do to unwind
punk rock
blood red walls
any flowers, do you like flowers
still if you see them every day?
The black dress smiled in
clutching a white bag
the kind you bring to a birthday party when you’re too lazy to wrap
and a memento, cap screwed tight,
it’s been paid for, she said, pierce blue staring kind of light
for 77 years I commented 3 pounds?
more like 6 she said, passing
Dad to me
I put him in the front seat where he always sat
called Sue got the machine
told her about hedge brake shop
remembered picking up my daughter
writing her eulogy
writing all those eulogies
who knew it’d be something I’m good at
she was lighter
maybe that’s why I was sadder
maybe that’s the ladder
you climb several eulogies further up
from the tears that flood the earth
crematorium next to the ersatz Taco Bell
across from the lumber yard and going out
of business furniture store almost
kitty corner from the brake shop
Why pay more? asked the flyer on the counter
before the black dress girl wearing pierce blue
eyes came out and asked my license and two
signatures I guess to make sure I could drive him home
Outside the door the shaggy hedge last
trimmed from the look of it last
fall sprouts pink and white blossoms
guards the glass door from the park lot
while inside choice pendants urns and little memento boxes can
peek meek from cases
what’s it like to work with death every day
what do you go home to
what do you do to unwind
punk rock
blood red walls
any flowers, do you like flowers
still if you see them every day?
The black dress smiled in
clutching a white bag
the kind you bring to a birthday party when you’re too lazy to wrap
and a memento, cap screwed tight,
it’s been paid for, she said, pierce blue staring kind of light
for 77 years I commented 3 pounds?
more like 6 she said, passing
Dad to me
I put him in the front seat where he always sat
called Sue got the machine
told her about hedge brake shop
remembered picking up my daughter
writing her eulogy
writing all those eulogies
who knew it’d be something I’m good at
she was lighter
maybe that’s why I was sadder
maybe that’s the ladder
you climb several eulogies further up
from the tears that flood the earth
I can't imagine how this feels as my parents are still alive ~ My hubby though has seen this first hand when my father in law died...more than 20 years ago. Its been a long time but the grief and the memories are always fresh every anniversary. That last verse just breaks the heart ~
ReplyDeleteThe details in this made me feel like I was right there, in the speaker's life, walking through it with her. How awful, the way death doesn't just take someone away from us, but sometimes the whole process seems to *diminish* them, and us. It's hard to take.
ReplyDeleteFantastic write, Michael. Who knew how many losses and eulogies we would have to endure before someone writes ours? (I think I might write my own in advance.) I remember when the vet handed me Pup - my great big noisy obstreperous boy - in a tiny cardboard box, I just lost it. I was right there with you, through every line of this.
ReplyDelete