From the box to the grave

I wrote this poem in a cemetery I found nearby. In the beginning of the summer, I’d ride my bike there to sit and think. (I’ve spent a lot of time alone over the past couple of months.)

Such a gorgeous, gorgeous couple.
Such a gorgeous, gorgeous couple.

The poem is about my papa. I started crying and ended up calling my boyfriend while he was at work –– I needed to talk to someone. I’m my own worst enemy and often beat myself up mentally. I sat there under my tree near Harriet’s grave (died in the 1870s, no last name on stone), and wished I could visit one for Papa. I wished I could go somewhere to be alone, but still be with him.

When he died, my grandma decided they would wait to open the grave until their combined cremains could be buried together. So his cremains sat in a bag, in a box, on a shelf. And I just wanted closure.

Looking back now, I’ve realized that, to have closure with him, she had to die, too.

And she did.

I just didn’t think about it at the time.

And I can’t go back to that cemetery ever again. I just can’t.

 

On a shelf

This is where you should be.

Not in a bag in a box on a shelf,

But in the ground.

Where you can feed the soil

you were born on and fell

in love on.

Soil you fought to preserve,

even though you never talked

about that.

 

I want your ashes to feed the ground

I walk on every day and bring forth new

life.

 

But, most of all, I just wish

you were still here.

So I could hear your voice

softly say my name again.

 

To kiss your sandpaper

cheek one more time

and hear you say “Oh, that’s nice”

and memorize that vibration

of your vocal cords.

 

Vocal cords that don’t even

exist anymore…

 

You’re dust in a bag

in a box

on a shelf.

 

 

~EMS

6/25/13

8:22 p.m.