the funeral director on call
had remained in the mortuary downstairs
so we could give him
time he wanted with her
as the old man had refused to leave the chapel
next morning before dawn
i found him there
head resting on the side of
his deceased wife’s antique rose casket
“mother” stitched into fabric of the lining
ten children between them
hand atop her rosary wrapped fingers
he had passed in the night
sitting beside her
the last words he said to me was
i miss her so much i could die
every
widower
becomes a poet
2 replies on “every widower becomes a poet”
Crike, that’s bleak. And beautiful. And fucked up.
Bleak and Beautiful is the name of my hair salon…I heart you, as always.