A Rag, A Bone, And A Hank Of Hair
I'm sitting alone with my father at the funeral parlor.
Viewing hours have just begun, but it's midday work
week, and for a few hours it'll be just me and him, the
first time I've laid eyes on him since the phone call
woke me up.
I'm doing what a son is supposed to do, or so I've
been told, but it's hard work, sitting with what used
to love and trouble you.
Of course, his body is a bright lie in its casket,
everything that has brought him here carefully
hidden or rearranged.
Is there something I want to tell him? Anything I
I can only sit and wait and listen to the gospel
music as it buzzes through the speakers. Jesus, Jesus,
Jesus. All his time, all his struggles that I still call life.
All his trials.
- Cornelius Eady