The Funeral

Thinking back thirty years to that hazy day, a cool breeze moving cherry blossom petals, pink confetti swirling. A plume of blue grey rises up from a spent wick, only a small dying ember remaining, the celebration of the departed now complete.

Columns of light pass through stained glass, a thick illuminating hue across an expanse of marble floor. Then the sound of the passing bell. Tears from bloodshot eyes, trickle down cheeks and stubble chins, friends, family, lovers.

A man of many talents, poet, mountaineer, taxi driver, lying in wait in a cheap black suit, hair brushed back. Orange staining pollen from Lilies on white leaves and fabric. A man of many talents and vices, hard booze, cheap women, and drunken days, while my mother worked the night shift, a second job. I kiss him softly on the cheek, and say goodbye to a good man with a broken soul.

garland of roses,
soft fingers pressing gently,
beads held in anger.