Midwest Funeral

I didn't cry,
at first,
the day we buried you
in the cemetery overlooking your farm.
The sky grayed,
perhaps stereotypically,
and spat haphazardly at us;
the drops snapping like a drum
off the slate-roofed barn in which
I spent so many of my young summers.

Back in the church basement
the myriad Ruths and Helens,
who remember when
I was this big,
prepared luncheon for the family.
Deli meats and white bread
and plenty of mayonnaise.
All manner of fruit and vegetables,
suspended in jiggly neon
and plenty of mayonnaise,
pass themselves off as salads.
Cookies and brownies
and punch spiked with sherbet
(Sherbert around here)
occupied the youngsters
while bleary-eyed adults
drank weak, watery coffee
remembering your good times and
contemplating their mortality.

Slow Dance

How I see it:

We stand close,
not Swayze-Grey close,
but not as far apart
as a couple eighth graders
with hands on fact-finding missions
of each others shoulders.
Our hands are clasped,
fingers interlocked
or maybe not.
I say something
witty and charming,
I hope,
because I need
to make you smile.
A smile that rumbles through your chest,
dances over your lips
and ends with a burst of light in your eyes.
I hope
(there I go again)
that light doesn't fade,
but it will.
It always does.
Like the music, or
the late September sun
scattering rays through the open barn
saying its daily goodbyes.
Until then
we just sway
our hands clasped,
fingers interlocked
or maybe not.