Aftermath

Strange days between death and burial. 
Too much time.
Too much space in the room.
At the funeral home, David's former classmate will make 
The Arrangements So much sadness in that little phrase.
Coffin-shopping, absurd! Moody (to say the least) 
I know which one we'll pick, without even looking, 
the cheapest one they have.
No regrets or guilt, nothing to prove. Still, 
I'm pleased when I see it. Simple pewter, it suits him.
(As if a metal box can suit.) 
Tiny plot of ground to buy next. David's laid off, real estate's high,
even here. Location is everything. 
Youngest brother will take care of it; he's like that. 
(Years ago, kids small, David's chest hurt, the ambulance came.
An infection, but a nasty one. People called:
"Let us know if you need anything." 
Who has time to make a list with toddlers underfoot,
worrying I'd be a young widow, like someone once said?
Brother-in-law came, announced he was mowing the yard.
He's like that. Still.)
We return to our house with too much space
to find mountains of food, brought not
so that I don't have to cook, but so that we'll remember to eat. 
Smells and tastes comfort, but it really is the thought
that counts. 
Sleep fails. I get up in the dark,
cleaning house with a vengeance, 
write words for someone else to say two day's hence. 
The weather man predicts a storm could interrupt
our carefully constructed Arrangements but 
I know it won't. I'm sure of it.
God took our son. 
He owes us that much.




(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012.