It Comes To This One Day

we gathered
grim faced and drawn
in huddles
teetering on the
edge of an open
grave freshly dug
its depth was
accommodating

we each threw
a rose
how untidy they looked
down there
sundered posies
strewn across the casket
almost obscuring it
but I could still see
the name plate

I looked across
at my son
finger and thumb straddling
the bridge of his nose
rubbing at the wetness
in his eyes
still clutching his rose
reluctant to accept
the finality of letting
it go
and I went to him
with comfort

as a silent expressionless
man proffered
a small box of dirt
and we started
burying dad
a handful at a time

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