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Burying Mommy

Men in dark suits,

women in black dresses

sit in a row

twisting tissues

in jittery fingers.

I read prayers,

then eulogies they’ve written.

The oak casket rests

silently on its carrier.

Her daughter, new wrinkles

around her mouth, “My mother

was my best friend.” Her son,

gray around the edges

of his bald spot, “If my mother heard

what I’d written today

she’d say, ‘It was written

by a second grader.’”

Everyone laughs except him.

At the grave the daughter sobs,

“I miss my mommy, I miss my mommy.”

Her husband and teenage children wince.