birth at the funeral

My chest ticks in metronomic time with my head.

i always thought the view from a sight like this would feel different, the suits of family a bit too small for the fact that these aren’t the suits worn every week. the young boys pull at their ties and the young girls stare at the muddy earth. my idea of these things filled with black umbrellas and black veils over the faces of the women, a bit pretentious. the Hearst looming along the entrance to the field of bodies like a black horse, resting from the journey of delivering this husk of a man to his final lay. I cant feel my hands which for the first time is fine, they aren’t needed for anything. the outstretched hands of barely known uncles, nephews and grandfathers offering their interpretation of console while their female counterparts wince and offer kisses on the cheek and back-pats somehow distance myself more from them than anything. the dew laden grasses, the sway of trees, stray tissues bounce across the street accompanied by autumns golden leaves, god has a truly unique outlook on death and for the moment, it isn’t shared. Eye contact seems futile, the headstone engraved with words chosen by someone else. for a moment i picture a giant spike erupting out of the earth and growing continually until it touches the sun then sucking itself back into the earth.  the last time i saw him he sat in a wicker chair on the front porch of that house, the one he was born in. his boots covered in dust, his cigarette ashes forming a mound beside him, the sound that came pushing out of his throat every time before he laughed,  the way he used ‘goddamned’ so well. i remember thinking how much he looked like i had imagined he would when i was young. He told me “one day, you’ll figure shit out”.


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