Frosty lace covers the tree branches, the bushes, the
shepherd’s hook in my dormant garden where a few leaves poke up from dirty
snow. Now as thin as onion skin, not much more than an intricate weaving of
vein, they provide little cover for the perennials tucked beneath.
The ground beneath the snow at Gates of Heaven is
diamond-hard this time of year. It took jackhammers and a backhoe hours of
pounding and slashing to leave the rectangle that would receive your coffin. The
family didn’t want to wait for the spring thaw. You had to be buried right away.
After the church service, we formed a line around the hole
and sang as you were lowered in. Some stepped forward to drop tentative flowers
on the glossy wood before the first ceremonial handful of dirt was sprinkled
down. We didn’t witness the piled dirt return to its resting place. That
would be done later.
We were ushered back to our cars and the funeral lunch.
Aproned parishioners waited on us with abstract solicitousness. I chatted with
friends, dry-eyed.
Finally, in the car, alone with a peace lily someone
insisted I keep, I wept for you, for me, and for all that was lost.
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