Funeral

I remember driving to Grandpa’s funeral.

Grandma, suffering from Alzheimer’s, sat next to me,

And turned to ask Mom if Jake was dead.

“Yes”. No conversation followed.

So much honest grief,

Half a hundred years ago,

Clear-eyed, I saw heartbreak

And still feel privileged.

It was an open casket affair,

And there was wailing.

Was it healing, all those tears?

Maybe, but it’s my cousin Roberta I remember.

She attended with her boyfriend.

I watched her squeezing his hand,

And thought, you should not be here.

This is not your show, its Grandpa’s.

A more charitable person

Would consider her age and my conviction.

How do I know I was right

And maybe she outgrew theatricality?

Too late, much too late.

The contrast between the mourners and my cousin

Is a special vision

That allows me to see both ends of the earth.