Not with lively grandchildren tossing frisbees,
shaking hula-hoops across a greener lawn.
Not with friends recalling poignant stories
to a flower-crowded church as mourners mourn.
But with a passionless son leading the awkward chill.
an estranged wife once beaten barely alive
a weeping granddaughter he entered as a child,
Descendants, searching for the correct emotion, arrive.
As the son and his son embrace beside his open grave,
knowing without speaking that one will die first
and rather soon. Whoever it will be, will leave
a hole so wide the world could pass unnoticed.
and I who have learned nothing from this journey,
watch you descend, with one eye moist the other dry.
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