We stood outside this morning
on a tiny postage stamp patch of wintry grass
underneath a tiny canopy
made vibrantly blue by the colorless sky
black overcoats, suits, dresses, tights, boots
packed in by family
behind the two rows of felt-covered folding chairs
that lined his golden oak casket
I caught my eyes darting between headstones
close enough to read
WULLIMAN
Harry and Elmira
were just beyond
FLUECKIGER
Robert and Marilyn
To the left there was one darker stone
almost covered by the throng of mourners
I could only make out the last three letters
yet the tears welled up
and rolled down, down
my fingertips straightened
and pushed my pockets' seams
to stifle the smallish gasp
because I knew
just like that
where we were standing
MC KEAN
Gorman and Lorraine
the hallowed ground
where my grandparents
rested
I remembered them, too
Write on,
b
