Because it’s 50 years, I drive to the cemetery.
Because you played cards at night with
the grounds keeper, I smile when I pass the house.
Because you were a funeral director, I don’t mind
walking along the graves, my scarf blowing in
circles with the March wind. Because you loved to whistle,
I do my best today. Because I was there on
the day you died, I push a green carnation
into the mud. Say a prayer. Because the cemetery is just
uphill from our funeral home-house, I walk around.
Peek through the fence as church bells
ring the hour. Because it was 1975, I never made a
photo board. When did that become a ritual?
Did we not pour over your photos? And remember?
Because it’s 2025, I will scan old photos and make a video.
For You. Because I miss you still. Then, because you loved
ice cream, I’ll make a dish, make a wish, make a
list of memories. Because I never did say good-bye.
