Everyone here, seated quietly
spaced out in curved rows of old wooden pews
thinks you rest
willing to do nothing for once
inside that dully gleaming silver colored
box with a spray of roses and gladioli
on the top, sprigs of greenery
reaching artfully over the edges
toward us.
The pastor didn’t know you
so there’s not much he can say
although he knows he has to say something
comforting
if possible. Now a neighbor
who knew you through the climates of your life
speaks of you,
how you farmed
(I remember this) when tractors
had no air conditioned cabs,
how you defended
feeding your barn cats as a tax deduction
(I cheered for you),
how you flew
your twin engine Beech as charter
to finance land and better combines
(I logged instrument time with you).
You wouldn’t believe
any more than I do
that you’re somewhere above us
flying around like an eagle
(nursing home a speck in the town below)
but it’s a pretty thought
anyway.
Marydale Stewart's chapbook, Inheritance, was published in 2008 by Puddin' head Press in Chicago. She has a poem
in the 2009 fall/winter Aurorean and another in that magazine's broadsheet. She has been a college English teacher,
librarian, and stable bum in Illinois, Kansas, and Colorado. She lives in a house dominated by her rescued cats and
dogs.
| This funeral marked the end of a 40-year friendship. As I worked through my own grief and loss, the hymn stayed in my mind and I thought about how he would have reacted to it, so that’s why I used the apostrophe device. Then the poem came to me in the form of specifics, first, the pews in this tiny rural Congregational church, the casket itself, and even the memories defined by certain events and moments. I do have a pilot’s license (no longer current); he had an instructor’s certificate. But there were many other events over the years…I think sharing a friend’s life and family lends another dimension to our own memories. It’s as if you have taken another person’s life and folded it into your own. |
