Absences

A Funeral

A Funeral

We walked following the dead

Through narrow streets

That could barely fit a car.

This is how it has always been done.

We are in procession—a solemn flash mob,

Invading the small country roads.

People look at us as we pass by.

We trod along the path

Leading into the cemetery.

Stone and gravel are crushed repeatedly

Under the shoes of a hundred mourners.

In November, this same path

Must be covered with drops of candle wax

Plastic bags and flower petals,

And a mixture of trash, dirt, and tears.

Here there are tall trees,

Heavy with green mangoes.

I suppose they are well-nurtured

By the dead.

We reach a chapel

And they lay him down inside.

This is the first and last time I will see him.

Sounds of weeping fill my ears

But I hear none from his wife.

She is not allowed to cry.

Outside, someone whimpers softly like a dog.

The wind carries it along with the sound

Of shovels scraping the ground.

When the cement is fixed in place

The whimpering turns into howling.

 A real dog comes along to sniff at our feet.

The sky is bright blue

With barely a cloud in sight

When they let white balloons fly into the air.

People start clapping.

I hear someone tell a small child, “look,”

Pointing up to the balloons with his lips.

“Say goodbye to grandfather.”