Of All The Stories I've Written, I Share With You, Stranger, These Few

Nobody Told Me

Nobody told me.
They clothed me in yellow.
Yellow like the sun,
yellow like the chrysanthemums weaved in my hair.

Everyone else wore black,
black like the car I always drove,
black like my hair, always tied up high above my head.

I could hear them.
Nobody told me I would be able to hear
my friends whisper in my mother's ear:
"I'm sorry for your loss"
Nobody told me I would be able to hear
the sobs my father made as he lay on my coffin,
sunflower in hand.

I could see them.
Nobody told me I would be able to see
the yellow rose my husband lay atop my latched hands,
his touch as warm as always.
Nobody told me I would be able to see
the crowd of people watching me
as I was lowered into the ground.

I could smell them.
Nobody told me I would be able to smell
my perfume in my sister's hair.
Nobody told me I would be able to smell
the fresh dirt as it was thrown atop me.

I could feel them.
Nobody told me I would be able to feel
my hand graze across the smooth wood that my coffin was made out of.
Nobody told me I would be able to feel
each and every jolt of my coffin as I was carried to the graveyard,
my final resting place.

I could tell I was dead.

Nobody told me the brakes would fail, causing my car to fly off the cliff.
Nobody told me that this trip would be my last.
Nobody told me I would die.

Nobody told me.