Calling Hours
We stand in awkward silence,
Wearing our Sunday best.
Each person sees the family
Fidgeting in front of the closed casket,
And the daughter-less father,
Flanked by his brave wife and now only-child.
There are new creases,
Which fracture his sun-tanned cheeks.
His lips tremble ceaselessly.
His eyes,
Tinged with the redness of sleepless nights,
Frantically flit between the eyes of each hand he grasps.
What are they searching for?
Not even he knows.
An uninhibited burst of laughter springs
From old acquaintances in the corner.
We go rigid and examine the father,
Mixtures of emotions swirling around in our own heads,
But his gaze slowly falls to a spot on the tan carpet,
Staring past the individual fibers crushed by hundreds of
feet.
What will I say when the father,
Crumbling where he stands,
Grabs my hand for support?
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