Seagrape Sermon

One day she'll reach down deep and preach
a sermon that will shock all those who thought
they knew her well, and tell them of the wondrous
sights she's seen, the dreams she's dreamed,
the answers God has gifted her with, strangely
wrapped and unexplained. Or maybe she should
write it now, in longhand neatly filling pages,
folded carefully and placed within an envelope
awaiting some long distant day when she has
breathed her last. Instructed to unseal the document and read it loudly to those gathered at the beach
before her ashes catch a final salty breeze,
a few will weep, a few will smile, and one or two
may gasp that she would say such things, surprises,
secrets, mysteries unveiled, revealed at last. It
all makes sense now, some will think. Or doesn't.
But she won't be there to laugh and say it matters
not a bit. The sermon may get stuck inside a purse
or book - one tends to keep last words; the envelope
will fall unnoticed to the sand. And they will hug and
wander off to get into their cars and start the task
of living without her around, but someone may - no,
will - just stand in solitude and think about the woman
who is gone for some time longer. And the breeze will
catch the envelope and it will catch the person's eye
and so a chase will there ensue. A child, perhaps, or
grandchild, by then maybe even grandchild's child,
but more than likely it will be the man who loved her more
than life itself and knew her best and longest.
He will have to stop and rest, old age and all,
but keep keen eyes upon the envelope and notice
as it lands among the seagrapes. He will find it,
hold it closely as if hoping for familiar scents and
disappointed that they disappeared so many years
before, will put it in his pocket, heading home
to grieve alone and plant a seagrape.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014