Visitation

When we told the funeral home how many hours to set
for the visitation, he said "That will be brutal." He knew
it would take its toll, but we knew
to expect a crowd.
Paying respects, saying goodbye.
Flowers, so many flowers. It would be months
before the smell didn't usher in a meltdown.
I'd never liked open caskets but relented.
Any chance to see that face, as long as possible.
T-shirt and shorts, cap turned around
the way he liked to wear it. They had to trim the bill
so it laid right. Barefoot. Didn't own a suit,
or live long enough to rent one, even, for prom.
Tongue ring out of sight but still intact
through accident, surgeries, this final
affront. The smile wasn't right,
but there was no mistaking the shell for the boy
we missed. Miss.
Teenage girls in short skirts, unnoticed for once
by boys bravely trying to hold it together.
They brought things to bury with their fallen friend,
treasures a sign of the treasure he was:
notes, a ring. His All-Star pitcher's dad brought
a game ball to tuck beside him.
"Chris couldn't come," he whispered,
tears streaming. "He just couldn't."
In a few years, Chris would join his catcher,
and their coach.
Our turn to visit grieving parents,
tell them it won't get better.
But we get better at it.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012