Oh, you three! You are gone from this earth. You are everywhere; you are nowhere.

I. You are in the earth, given back to the dust, returned. You are wrapped in muslin, embroidered and tied with the ancient prayers, placed by hands in the grave carved out of the hillside by shovels, not heavy machinery. Covered, by two sisters and many friends, with sand, dirt—one of the sisters cannot call it dirt—covered using those same shovels, digging the tool into the mound of earth, holding it over the grave, turning it and depositing its contents directly onto your bound body. I watch from the hilltop—I cannot climb down to help cover you gently, cover you finally—I watch and hear and see: the scrape of metal into earth, the transferring from mound to cavern, refilling it; the dust rising as each shovelful deposits its offering onto you, what was once you.

II. You are held in a box. A clean, elegant box, not shiny, not gaudy. In good taste. Like you. Inside, you are probably clothed in something wonderful, understated elegance with a little extra kick of gaiety, spontaneity, rebellion. I am grateful not to see you this way. We are under the canopy, at the top of the hill, in the peaceful Oakland cemetery, just the few of us. Kate plays soulful saxophone, songs from The White Album, at your request. “Blackbird” like we’ve never heard it; “I Will,” his love song, yours, forever, forever now with its new meaning.

III. You, who pushed so hard against it, you are now ash and crushed bone, without ceremony, as you requested. We release you into the hands of those who would wrap and take you immediately to the fire—I wanted to write oven, but cannot say oven, not with you in it—you did not want to grow too cold, I think, I guess; you could not picture refrigeration. We release you; we do not stay to watch (I have seen this before; cannot see it again). We release you, and . . .

Oh! I wanted to say, in the beginning, at the start of this, this elegy, this prayer, this poem, wanted to say, Oh! You three, you three who have gone in three days—3 days!—I wanted to say first, you have given me so much. This is all about what you have fed me, not what has been taken. This is all about what has been given. 

So you, you who chose the fires over the ground, we release you and you give us breakfast next. Big plates of sumptuous textures, tastes and all manner of eggs. Poached and topped, like ice cream cones, with Hollandaise, excessive and necessary. Turned over easy—as you were not, my poor, dear friend, it was not easy in any way for you—turned over easy into folded soft tortillas, covered in red sauce and garnished with spoonfuls of guacamole. And mine, scrambled gently, asparagus, summer squash, goat cheese folded in. With potatoes, finally, roasted, then pan-fried, mounds of them. I want them so badly, the food for the living, dug from the earth, food for life. Fat, roasted, pan-fried, perfect potatoes. Heralding my slow return from the land of the dying and, finally, eternally dead.

~ For Inbal, Melissa, and Roger

*****

13 September 2014

Forestville, California

Birdland Autumn Retreat

Prompt:  Five-word free write