I'll tell you something: every day <br />people are dying. And that's just the beginning. <br />Every day, in funeral homes, new widows are born, <br />new orphans. They sit with their hands folded, <br />trying to decide about this new life. <br /> <br />Then they're in the cemetery, some of them <br />for the first time. They're frightened of crying, <br />sometimes of not crying. Someone leans over, <br />tells them what to do next, which might mean <br />saying a few words, sometimes <br />throwing dirt in the open grave. <br /> <br />And after that, everyone goes back to the house, <br />which is suddenly full of visitors. <br />The widow sits on the couch, very stately, <br />so people line up to approach her, <br />sometimes take her hand, sometimes embrace her. <br />She finds something to say to everbody, <br />thanks them, thanks them for coming. <br /> <br />In her heart, she wants them to go away. <br />She wants to be back in the cemetery, <br />back in the sickroom, the hospital. She knows <br />it isn't possible. But it's her only hope, <br />the wish to move backward. And just a little, <br />not so far as the marriage, the first kiss.<br /><br />Louise Glück<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-fantasy-4/
