the Funeral

Long black cars
Men in tuxedos carrying, mournfully,
The body of Ms. Reyna Weathers
Born sometime in March 24 years ago exactly.
Died: 11:36 pm, December 1st
of a gunshot to the head,
Self-inflicted.
Violent? I know.

The best friend is dressed in a long black gown
Dressing down her features.
Her tears smear her eyeliner, mascara,
Dripped all in trails on her cheeks.

An older woman, the mother.
She faces more nightmares,
A look in those creased blue eyes,
She hasn't slept since that telephone call,
Since that glance upon the open coffin, agreeing upon the identity
Of that pale skinned body she had birthed and held and called her baby
For all these years.

The father has a gray beard,
Not a good look for this normally clean-shaven man
But who has time to shave
When their daughter is dead,
Your wife is always crying,
And you're caught in the mayhem?

Lastly, the fiancé, opposite the father,
Also bearing the body of the woman he loved.
Anger engulfs him more than sadness,
'She said she loved me, she said she loved me,
My lover wouldn't leave me,
She loved me more than the world itself
But it turns out that wasn't very much.'

Each swollen-eyed body, seated at a rosewood bench politely
A funeral is commonplace in a church like this
More beautiful than spiritually acceptable
With mosaic glass windows stained yellow, red, blue,
Some still shot out from those punk kids back in '84
This place has got history
And for a moment
As the mother kisses her baby goodbye
And the father lets a tear roll from his eye
The serenity is overwhelming.

There are people in this room who haven't spoken for years
Because of miles and forgotten disagreements,
All gathered in this room, united under one thought,
Weeping together, loving together,
Embracing one another and holding on for dear life,
Because that's all we really have, isn't it?