After the Funeral
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