MOURNING ASCENDANT

When they lowered my grandmother’s casket
into the sodden earth, there wasn’t
a dry eye or shoulder, or leg around.
Sophie would have gotten a good laugh,
her children always too busy for a visit
getting soaked to the skin,
in a cold, windy downpour, all but me,
the one she chose to conduct the service,
the funeral director standing behind me
with the oversize umbrella, ensuring
the words of prayer, of departure,
were dry enough to read, washed
only by my tears, held back, unholdable,
the clunk of the first shovel of dirt
on the simple pine box still echoing today.

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