The day of my mother’s funeral was bright and sunny,
a perfect spring day, if it weren’t for this.
Mother rested for an hour or more,
not at the center of the party
where she always wanted to be,
but out in one corner of the foyer,
where family and friends in the drab clothes
of mourning walked past and greeted her.
‘Pearl looks good,
like she’ll wake up and invite us all to dinner,’ they said.
How would I know?
I refused to look;
this shell was not my mother,
no matter what anyone said.
Finally, as had been her pattern all my life,
she went on ahead,
down the church’s center aisle to the front row,
me following grudgingly, dragging my feet,
wishing I were somewhere else.