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.