The Funeral

forty-five years on, and the memory blows back through my skull like smoke from a tailpipe. that day rushing in. a breeze pushing cherry blossoms around the churchyard. petals swirl down on the stone. soft. useless.

the incense finds my nostrils. a thin grey ghost of smoke curls up from the wick of a candle. the ember coughing its last. the party for the departed at an end. the stained glass throws light across the marble. the church bell starts tolling. slow. heavy.

there he lies in the box. my father in a cheap suit. his hair slicked back for once. poet, mountaineer, taxi driver. lily pollen is smeared orange on his cuffs. his talents and vices finally laid out equal. the hard liquor. the women. the days spent drunk while my mother pulled double shifts. I lean down and kiss the cheek. stubble rough. I whisper goodbye to a man who lived with his soul open.

outside, the blossoms just keep falling.

cheap suit in the box,
pollen on the cuffs,
the bells still tolling.