 |
| Tiger Lilies, Tamarack Creek |
His living room the same
For thirty-three years:
Immaculate sofa and carpet,
A cuckoo clock, a decoupage
Of children kissing
(my aunt’s creation)--
I was fourteen again,
Paralyzed on the sofa
After the funeral, their
Only son, who resembled me,
Crushed in a car accident,
No time in between as I squeezed
Again between my mother
And brother on the sofa.
 |
| Baby Blue Eyes |
At the funeral, my uncle, sobbing,
Had grabbed his son’s hand
From the casket and wouldn’t
Let go. I waited, next
In line, suddenly turning away
And bursting through the chapel door,
Tears streaming down my face,
Perhaps the first time I ever cried
For anyone else. I paced outside,
The door suddenly too heavy
 |
| Dead Bush Lupine |
To push open, until
The funeral director kindly
Opened it with one hand and motioned
Me inside. Of course I went back inside,
But I don’t remember anything else.
Three decades later,
At Rose Hills, my uncle
Searched a few
Difficult moments for
His wife and son,
The headstones all flat
On the ground. As I gazed
At L.A. below, I couldn’t
Remember any years passing.
Had I continued pacing, lost
Among the headstones,
For thirty-three years?
Was my uncle crying beside
The graves because his son
Had unexpectedly returned,
But fat now and bald--
Or because I now resembled
My father, who died three
Decades ago? Had he kept
The house the same, hoping
This day would arrive? I
Was always just a few
Hundred miles away.
Suddenly I knew why my uncle
Was crying again:
For thirty-three years,
We couldn’t find
Each other. His tears
Were also for his wife
And his son, yes,
But as he cried, I was, happily,
His nephew and his brother
And his son, no years ever
Having passed, none of us
Ever lost again.
No comments:
Post a Comment