After the Funeral

~for Doris

The church doors open to embrace the midday

light, shimmering off the farmer’s pond.

The meadow grass—browned over and stiff—softens

a little in the November sun. This is all

that stands between me and the old country road.

As a child, I burst through these doors, holding

my little brother’s hand, eager to escape the confines

of patent leather shoes, squirm out of our Sunday

best and dip each claustrophobic toe into the cool

water. I can almost hear our mama’s voice

carried on the thin breeze of this last warm

autumn day, calling us home. And just like back then,

my dear brother, you were always the one

to listen, always the first one to cross over.

~Pamela Taylor © 2013