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David E. Fuson

of

Flora, IL, US

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My Mother's Burial

by

David E. Fuson

On a bright, cold day in February,
my mother was put in the ground.
All the family, all her friends,
stood quietly gathered round.

The practiced voice of her pastor
droned the words I hated to hear,
"God rest her soul", he spoke,
to the people gathered near.

My sisters cried and my brothers
stood with faces made of stone.
While inside every person's head
their thoughts were their's alone.

I tried to keep the tears in check,
we wanted to stay strong.
But some slipped out despite my will,
as they played the organ songs.

The minutes passed so quickly,
it seemed as if I'd dreamt.
Soon the pastor said," Thats it",
and ushered us from the tent.

We shook some hands, patted shoulders,
as we walked to waiting cars,
some went for a dinner,
and some went to a bar.

Mom would have liked the ritual,
and talking to old friends.
Perhaps she was there with us,
smelling flowers, in the wind.