Two cars, a pickup and two minivans
traveling a gravel road
an half hour from anyone’s homes,
we are heading to Gale’s creek,
and its headstones.
We could be the only ones here today.
A Lincoln is already there.
Flags dot the hillside;
some of the flowers are fresh.
We never have flags, only flowers.
Slowly we walk to the graves,
and discuss what’s going on,
–Dad’s grave doesn’t have any grass–
it’s just red clay,
my great grandmother lies under
a bed of lush green grass
–I’ll get the flowers–
My aunt kneels,
trimming her roses,
doffed of thorns,
–Robert, can you fill the bucket–
he walks off towards the spout.
My brother walks Papa down the hill–
the downward slope isn’t kind
to his 77 years–while I worry;
I’ll be gone for four months
what if…?
what if …?
what if 77 is perfection and consummation?
The uncles are hovering around Elijah’s grave.
1928.
Eighty years on
here I stand
I can do nothing else.
I watch carefully,
the hedging, gardening, grooming of the afterlife,
and I know that one day
I’ll have to do it myself,
worrying about grass seed instead of tears.
Here comes Stacy carrying Ali–
Stacy gave her grandmother her wedding bouquet,
and we cried–up the hill.
They stand under the Oak tree,
as everyone gathers around,
and I look around–
cousins are playing games–needing to watch,
but I wish there was a prayer,
an old Indian dance and chant;
I wish to the sky and earth
to know what I need to do.
