11 October 2017
— alien cat spied in the yard; Flowerpot’s tail a bottle brush.
Good Morning All,
My guess is you are about as big on cemeteries as I am. Which is to say not much. Though I might add there are no cemeteries more somberly beautiful than those here in Denmark.
Also, you probably do not need a whole lot more of my trying to convince my dead wife not to be dead. And if it is as gray and gloomy where you are as it is here this morning, you definitely do not need another sad natter from me.
Therefore, I am happy to tell you the following is not particularly sad. It’s just a recounting of Esther’s and my trip to the family plot yesterday. Which, okay, is not exactly laugh a minute fare, but certainly not a three Kleenex moment.
The following probably does not qualify as a poem. Call it a reflection.
And the car in it has not quite gone to the junkyard yet. We’re doing that this afternoon.
One Afternoon in October
Bheka Pierce
I showered, shaved, and brushed my teeth twice,
So as to look my best for the trip to the cemetery,
Something in a weird way like a first date,
Though I doubted my wife of three decades
Would be there in that green wool dress
Which time and time again knocked my eyes out.
Her sister and I drove up together in her ancient
Red Toyota, which had failed inspection,
Though it still had enough zip for me to get
A speeding ticket, which must have pleased
The old heap, its last bit of ironic glory before we
Drove it to the junkyard the next day.
From our garden, a clutch of calendulas, her favorites,
One for her, one for each of our kids, and one for me,
And four daffodil bulbs dug up from our yard,
And a trowel for planting them around her North, South,
East, and West, the best I could think to do for her
Plus reminding her the while she was yet so much loved.
With a bottle of South African red we toasted her
On her birthday, she receiving her share
Through the anointment of the earth above her,
And we talked of old times, and this and that,
And I was much comforted by finding in her sister’s
Face such filial and kindly reminders of her own.
She was not there in her green dress that knocked
My eyes out, but was everywhere else around us
In the green firs, in the reds of the autumnal maples,
In the last yellow rose by her grandfather’s grave,
And in a flock of sparrows chattering in a nearby hedge
Taking swift and sudden flight across a lowering sun.
Therefore, I am happy to tell you the following is not particularly sad. It’s just a recounting of Esther’s and my trip to the family plot yesterday. Which, okay, is not exactly laugh a minute fare, but certainly not a three Kleenex moment.
The following probably does not qualify as a poem. Call it a reflection.
And the car in it has not quite gone to the junkyard yet. We’re doing that this afternoon.
One Afternoon in October
Bheka Pierce
I showered, shaved, and brushed my teeth twice,
So as to look my best for the trip to the cemetery,
Something in a weird way like a first date,
Though I doubted my wife of three decades
Would be there in that green wool dress
Which time and time again knocked my eyes out.
Her sister and I drove up together in her ancient
Red Toyota, which had failed inspection,
Though it still had enough zip for me to get
A speeding ticket, which must have pleased
The old heap, its last bit of ironic glory before we
Drove it to the junkyard the next day.
From our garden, a clutch of calendulas, her favorites,
One for her, one for each of our kids, and one for me,
And four daffodil bulbs dug up from our yard,
And a trowel for planting them around her North, South,
East, and West, the best I could think to do for her
Plus reminding her the while she was yet so much loved.
With a bottle of South African red we toasted her
On her birthday, she receiving her share
Through the anointment of the earth above her,
And we talked of old times, and this and that,
And I was much comforted by finding in her sister’s
Face such filial and kindly reminders of her own.
She was not there in her green dress that knocked
My eyes out, but was everywhere else around us
In the green firs, in the reds of the autumnal maples,
In the last yellow rose by her grandfather’s grave,
And in a flock of sparrows chattering in a nearby hedge
Taking swift and sudden flight across a lowering sun.
Go Well and Stay Well,
Bhekaron
P.S. Three snaps from the cemetery.
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