originally posted by Jean – Feb 20, 2010
perhaps suggested as a result of “Bob B.”

I genuflect
and wobble.
Incense stings my
throat.
Holy water splats
on her coffin.
Old voices, chanting,
float around me.
Dark, polished, hard wood
pews and walls.
Air is orange glow from
candles by the altar.
October cold, hiding
in the shade of the canopy
at the church cemetery, watching
Dad at the edge
of her grave.
Shoulders slumped. Looking down.
The last to leave her.
Three years later, December snow.
I hold his triangle-folded flag and
am the last to leave him
at the same cemetery.