By: Rose Lindsay Rowe
the day my father’s remains were put in the ground
it did not rain
nor was it gloomy
it wasn’t especially beautiful either.
it just was.
a mediocre day;
a mediocre life.
he was surrounded by
(who didn’t really know him)
(who only knew how to take advantage of him)
(who didn’t know him at all)
who hollowed out a small, square opening in the earth
and in it carefully placed the gray, cardboard box
containing what was left of my father’s corporeal self
then replaced the dirt
and gently tamped down the sod he had previously peeled away
and if a person walked by
five minutes after we had all departed
that soul would not have known
that someone was just buried beneath that very spot
so no one could tell the difference
that he had died at all
or even really lived.
RIP Ray Albert Weaver Dec. 10, 1956- Dec. 27, 2006