The news.
It hit each brother hard.
I received it last.
I was caught off-guard, by the invitation to the church yard.
This was to be the first.
For some this would be the worst.
I felt submersed, as if I’d dove headfirst and now immersed in the tears that burst from my father’s eyes and did not disperse.

Family arrived.
Gradually at first,
Then all at once,
Our garden was filled with cousins, uncles, aunts.
Some the brothers knew, others they met.
As each one told them it’s okay to be upset.
But none of the brothers’ eyes were wet.
Not yet.

The black cars arrived.
And they all piled in. We seemed to talk about everything.
Except about him.
We got to the place.
Friends had come, so them, we embraced.
Then filled with grace,
One brother turned and tripped on his shoelace.

The brothers laughed
But there was no malice in it.
Just a moment of joy in all of this.

It was lighter than expected.
The weight shared between 6.
The brothers, their father, and his sis.

Two generations,
Carried in a third.
As the congregation stood,
With their cries unheard.
The ceremony started,
Hymns were sung.
The four brothers, right at the front.

Their father rose with a wobble,
To speak his piece.
He looked small to the boys,
But he never looked weak.
Following him,
One of the brothers shall speak.

I tapped my pocket,
Checking it was there,
Knowing too that my brothers had spares.

I stood.

I took the steps towards the podium.

I stood.
Ready to begin.

Ready to speak for my brothers
and say goodbye to him.

The November 25, 1963 day of the cold sun,
the noble horses,
white horses-drawn caisson,
the dignity of their somber gait,
silver shoes resounded on the
pavement,
the skittish night-black riderless
horse-
Black Jack, led down the avenue
of the people,
his symbolic rider, no longer
bound to the earthly life, it's
sorrows.

The noble horses accompanied
him on his journey to the ages,
the mystique, the dreams,
deathless,
where the ground is hallowed-
Arlington.

what they don’t tell you about funerals is that nothing ever feels real in that too-cold room. not the flowers. not the food. not the rooms in the back your uncles stayed in to keep watch. not the ill-fitting white t-shirt your father made you purchase yesterday. not the sad smile on your grandmother’s face instead of her usual bright ones. and certainly not the dead body of your grandfather in the epicenter, still as the corpse he is and none like the grandparent you grew up with.

there was no such thing as an open casket in your family, which was good, you suppose. it’d be too much to see his face without his usual frown. the smell was off. like tea and incense and flower petals—the ones you used to bathe the buddhist statues at the vihara every new year.

the catered pork ribs taste like sandpaper. you keep waiting for the buttery taste of your grandfather’s recipe to hit your tongue but you are met with msg. it was one of the many disappointments you encountered in those three days, three absences from school. none of your friends checked up on you further than to offer their “deepest condolences”. your crush has not texted you back. you drink bottled mineral water as your mother fights with your father, whose father had just died, again.

by the time the ceremony comes you are confronted with the gold of the casket up close. you wonder if it was real gold. a few hours ago your little cousins, yet to understand the concept of death, tugged at your sleeves and asked when grandpa would be home. you sealed your lips shut and let your younger cousin handle them like she always does. because you’re not ready to admit that you don’t understand death either; not in second grade when the dragonfly your classmates cruelly stomped on no longer flew, not even less than a month later, when your other grandfather passes.

you whisper words of prayer in the mother tongue you no longer remember. your cousin sheds a tear in front of you and you wonder if it’d be appropriate to console her now. you think about how much your kneecaps hurt from kneeling for a long time. your aunt’s cries perfectly masked the buzzing phone you sneaked into your pocket. later that night, your third uncle told everyone that he saw his father-in-law welcomed by guan yin herself; you wonder if it was true, or merely another lie adults tell kids and themselves to feel better about the nonsensical nature of mortality.

what they don’t tell you about funerals is how much like a fever dream they are. when the proceedings are over you drive straight home. home smells like home and your maid made your bed like usual. the stuffed bear on your pillow has not moved since the morning. it is 11 pm, and your mother yells at you to sleep soon because your grandfather may be a jar of ashes stored in vihara but you have school tomorrow. it is time to go to bed.

Sunset
by Michael R. Burch

This poem is dedicated to my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt, who died April 4, 1998.

Between the prophecies of morning
and twilight’s revelations of wonder,
the sky is ripped asunder.

The moon lurks in the clouds,
waiting, as if to plunder
the dusk of its lilac iridescence,

and in the bright-tentacled sunset
we imagine a presence
full of the fury of lost innocence.

What we find within strange whorls of drifting flame,
brief patterns mauling winds deform and maim,
we recognize at once, but cannot name.

Keywords/Tags: sunset, aging, death, grandfather, grandson, grandchild, family, grave, funeral, loss, twilight, night, transcendence, heaven

I've been thinking a lot lately

In the last few years I've been to two funerals
In the next few years that number could jump to six

So how do you do it?
How does one manage to speak at a funeral?
What do you say to encapsulate the entire lifespan of a human
In just a few sentences?

How am I supposed to be able to talk about all the good and compassionate deeds
While also talking about all the hurtful and venomous actions and words?
And more importantly how do you speak in general?

The last two times, my voice became a snow covered field cricket
I stared at their stone-like, alien faces
And could only focus on the open casket.

I had words to speak, yes
But the dictionary I keep in mind was slammed shut and shoved into a melting iron safe
The absolute SECOND I couldn't recognize who lay before me at first glance.
Did I try to speak?
No
I avoided the tearful, dagger filled looks of the room by my own volition

Maybe it wasn't my place.
Maybe those words weren't meant for me to say in a room full of grieving and tired eyes
But if no one else is capable of speaking the truth no matter how heart-wrenching it may be
Where do those words come from?

I know it'll be my turn to speak one day
And I know on that day my voice will scream and cry
My vocal chords will rip and I will sob more so than I have ever dared to before.

On that day I'll understand how to say goodbye
And how it leads to an acceptable
Goodbye Forever

Return to the forest where I grew.
Because that is where you will find me.

Travel to the base of the hill, to the temperamental stream
Because that is where you will find me.

Go to the park and sit on the swing nearest the car park.
Because that is where you will find me.

At the field that watches over the sun's bed, follow the path to the storm drain, my shrine.
Because that is where you will find me.

Hear me in the wind, in every spark of purple and every stupid thing relating to every stupid joke I ever made.
Find me in Samarkand and in the playlists I leave behind.

Cast me to Zephyrus, so I can be in your lungs.
Because I want you to be, where you find me.