I stand here silently,
watching them take you away
in a box of metal.
Professional mourners weep
like banshees in a bog.
Strangers, family, and friends alike
All stand,
Allowing ourselves one final moment
before you've been made into ash
to let memory wash over us.

You were the mad one.
The only person I knew who could
eat more than fifteen hot dogs in one sitting
and still have room for lunch, dinner, and dessert.
You always said that you would be the first to go,
that death would take the best of us first.

The men come out to to your family
handing over your ashes.
The weepers leave,
the friends disperse,
the family begins on their way home.

Five years later,
the anniversary of your death.
I stand at your body-less marker.
As I move to turn away
I feel a hand on my shoulder.
I turn around confused
and gasp surprised.
You're more than just
ashes in an urn,
hidden in a closet.

You are the one who mourns,
your death unaccepted by those closest to you.
You ask me to say the words
that no one else had the strength to.
Good Luck.
With that, you are again
Ashes.