Mother lies among the flowers
at the foot of the alter in a glossy
silver coffin with gold and silver fittings
rented to conceal her cardboard casket.
Heated air is heavy with the smell of past-burned incense.
The organist concludes her churchy wail.
A fat and sweaty red-faced priest
in a circus tent of gaudy vestments
lumbers up into the pulpit.
A brief coughing fit and he speaks:
Today we say good bye to insert name here,
beloved wife of insert name here,
loving mother of insert names here,
devoted sister of insert names here…
I’m stoned and alone in an
unforgiving pew. The priest goes on:
commiserating exaggerating
pontificating exasperating,
stopping now and then to wipe the sweat off of his face.
I hear the rush of winter wind outside
and the organ wails again.
Mother’s sister stands and delivers:
“Ave Maria” through a deviated septum.
Six black suits and twelve white gloves
wheel Mother down the aisle to the exit.
I huddle with the aunts and uncles,
cousins, friends and neighbors, shivering
together on fragile folding chairs while the coffin
hangs suspended over a freshly dug-out grave.
The priest mumbles something from a book.
Two pairs of gloves
remove the flowers from the glossy coffin lid.
Two pairs of gloves
remove the shiny silver shell.
Two pairs of gloves take care
to lower a cardboard box into the grave.
Now the others walk back slowly to their cars.
I sit alone
no longer swaddled in the velvet
warm oblivion of my drug.
I’m shaking now from more than just the cold.
And I cry… not for what I’ve lost
or what I threw away
I cry now only for myself.
E J Barron
E J Barron 