Post Office Funeral

Every grief
reminds us
of every other grief.

I hardly knew this woman,
yet I weep,
as I drive her ashes
to the post office
and mail them
to her sister in Florida.

Both pallbearer and priest,
I pray silently,
as I lay her box to rest
inside another box,
shroud it gently
in plain brown paper,
and seal it up
with tape.

“One last adventure,”
I say to her,
to the postal worker
who is calculating the cost,
to the other customers
waiting in line
behind me.
A short eulogy
for an inadvertent
funeral.

The postal worker turns
to get the big orange stickers:
the ones that say
“cremated remains.”
I reach around
the protective glass
and lay my hand
on the package
in a final benediction.

Then I take the receipt
and leave,
walking past the line
of onlookers,
crying all the way home.

I cry for her,
for her family,
for her church
who never got to say
a proper goodbye.
But much more,
I cry for myself,
for the losses
in my life,
the slow and painful death
of so many dreams.

Who will be the priest
at this funeral
unfolding in my heart?
Who will carry my grief
with tenderness
and lay it down
to rest?
Who will place a hand
on my weary body
and give me a parting blessing,
assuring me
that it is time
to let everything go,
to be still,
to receive
peace?

May 2021
Copyright Diana E. Carroll