Butterfly Effect - ressourcesfeministes

125
Graveside Meditation
We, the mourners, stand— the
four of us in a line beside the
grave, beside the coffin.
You, my father— your face dark
and etched with lines of
disbelief— your white hair stark
in this sunny cemetery— you are
motionless— a grid of grief.
In the row behind stands our
aunt— our mother's friend for
more than sixty years
—she, the aunt— leans forward
and passes to you my sister—
seven roses picked from her
rambling garden
—she passes the roses to you—
some pink, some primrose, some
that lovely mix of pink and
yellow
—she passes them and you step
forward and place them on the
coffin.