The day strangely culminates in
German potato salad
and trays of sliced meat
on my Aunt MaryAnn’s dining table.
A celebratory end to a hectic week,
filled with what seem interminable
discussions, plans, decisions.
My father takes deliberate care
to involve me in its events,
in part for companionship and in part
not knowing what else to do.

So, there we sit
in the overheated director’s office,
weigh the pros and cons
of viewing times.
Meet with clergy,
choirs and relation.
Design order,
odes and speeches.
Evaluate various technical
and stylistic advantages of
wood versus metal.
Apply for certificates
and approvals from this office
and that.
Fill out forms and releases.
Select a hairstyle
and a dress.
A shade of lipstick.
Glasses or none.
None.

It’s a freezing February day.
The wind bites;
the snow is a dry powder
blowing over rock hard ground.
I sit on the stoop outside
MaryAnn’s back door,
a plate of uneaten food,
trying to size up what we had done.
All at once, it seems brutal.
The series of banal choices
that moments after they were made,
mean less than the potatoes
and onions in my lap.
A purposeful, unavoidable,
flurry of activity followed by
nothing.

Time passes and other lives intervene.
All those boxes to tick
and formalities to fulfill,
their substitutions for
thought and reason.
A system well worn and little changed,
with its own unbearable demand.
But there was assurance,
and if I am honest
a little hope
within it.