At first light, Easter Sunday morning,
The lilies on my mother's table
Trumpet Resurrection.
Not far from me,
My father's ashes, cool now,
Begin their dusty settling,
While I contemplate
The Resurrection.
"Don't try heroic means!"
He'd tell us.
"I'm old ... used up."
He even told me once
That if we found him in a home,
Lost in a coma,
That I must smother him.
(I told him no.)
I know what he meant, though.
"Do not resuscitate!"
To him, and now to me,
Requested no annihilation,
But declared his hope of Resurrection...
The Savior's gentle nudge to bring
A glorious morning's waking
Other where:
Shedding worn old limbs,
Renewing battered heart,
Erasing a million sins,
Though long forgiven,
Still borne on earth -
Consequential scars
Of living.
Easter Sunday morning,
My father's death, still fresh,
Brings me to affirm,
Christ died for sinful men
So they might live again.
But at this moment the Messiah stands risen from the dead, the first one offered in the harvest of those who have died. For since death came through a man, the resurrection of the dead also came through a man. (I Corinthians 15:20-21)
db April 8, 2012
Written shortly after my father died April 2, 2012. A little distance, but still fresh and strong is this memory. db