And My Father Still Rests In An Unmarked Grave

I have decided that it always rains at funerals—
as we are digging into the drenched earth—
or maybe rain is just relative to death—
The air hangs thick with loss and hurt,
Water clings to us and the soil like grief,
Swallowing memories of his voice and name.
Memories sink into the soil, heavy and mute.
Yet none dare speak of grief or blame.
Everyone is stiff, and our voices are full of weight.
No suits, I wear just a poor woman’s cloth, my own,
And no one thought to bring an umbrella or two.
My shawl around mum, holds ashes in a jar, yet no stone,
They portioned him into trinkets,
Hearts given to those who could bear it,
small trinkets of ash and sorrow on chains.
Though I didn’t want to wear it.
No tethered soul here, just partial ash.
I wore it for my mother’s sake.
No hands reach for mine—too much,
An empty presence time cannot abate.
Soft murmurs pressed by measured breath.
No casket to lower, inch by inch,
no money for stone or sermon.
Yet grief still lingers, like a cinch,
Only family stand by the graveside,
No preacher’s words drift through the haze,
Then, without warning—
On the spot, I am asked to speak his praise,
“Say something,” my mother said to me.
Words stumbled, with no time to prepare.
I must speak away the silence left by death.
met with quiet ridicule, a fractured prayer.
No others gave their final words. They forget to pray,
Words come awkwardly, Yet for my dad, too late—
mud-streaked hands, rain-soaked clothes,
No memories here, just a reminder to close the gate.
The cemetery forbade planting flowers—
We are here a year beyond his death, still restrained.
No condolences, Damn their sterility.
The dirt turns to mud, uncontained.
As silence watches our silence from the trees,
No marker for the grave, no sunshine on a dark day.
No gathering after, no warmth of shared memory.
If we planted flowers, they would mow them down anyway.
We place roadside flowers a great-grandchild picked,
on the brown dirt of the grave, A final gift, a last farewell.
It will be months or years before I see them again.
As I look in the rear view mirror, a voice lingers, heaven or hell.