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Through the steps I watched the thick ankles,
nylons slumping like loose skin,
old lady legs, old lady black shoes going in for cake.
Clump, clump, over my head,
subdued voices and the scrape of chairs at the table.

I remember sitting at that table with Aunt Mittie,
sharing cookies and iced tea on hot afternoons.
She told me of the hidey-hole under the porch,
it had been hers too when she was a little girl.
I found a little metal horse with a chain for a bridle
she’d forgotten and left under there, I guess.

My family lived in the little house out back of Aunt Mittie’s,
my brother was in school so my mother took me to the funeral.
These same old ladies had been there too,
smelling of lilacs and lavender and mothballs,
black hats with lace and wisps of blue-white hair
when they bowed their heads.
The tall bald man was from the church,
I recognized his suit and the droning sound of his voice.
My mother held my hand and said, “Stop fidgeting!”
“Ashes to dust, ashes to dust,” I said to myself,
the only thing he said that I remembered.

My mother was inside Aunt Mittie’s house
serving cake and tea to the old ladies,
I imagined their wrinkled lips and watering eyes
as they said “She’s gone to her reward.”
I thought that sounded good for Aunt Mittie,
I wondered what kind of award she’d get.
Maybe she’d get a real horse,
she told me one time she’d always wanted one.

Under the porch the dirt was cool and easy to dig in,
so I dug a square hole like Aunt Mittie’s
and buried the little metal horse in it.
“Ashes to dust, ashes to dust,” I said in a quiet voice,
then went to have my reward.



Dale Arthur

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