Photo by Ochir-Erdene Oyunmedeg on Unsplash
Leafy and lush, the cemetery grass
is a pillow beneath my feet
and I think this—this is what she wanted—
this is grass befitting her journey.
With eyes lowered I listen as the priest
consecrates her burial ground.
Her grass was as hard as the ground
it had to fight to conquer.
Like her, it endured hot summers
slip and slides, grandchildren,
dog poop, and teasing cats who hissed back
before getting chased
over the cinder block wall.
Her grass was stubborn, hard won,
firm in its faith
that if the rain won't come,
it was God's will.
Her grass was scrabbly and pricked
like the hot itch in my armpits
when she looked at me steady and asked questions
I couldn't—or wouldn't—answer.
Her grass was never a lawn
but a forum for black birds,
thieving raccoons,
midnight possums faking death.
Her grass didn't stand a chance
because it was made from dust
and after Grandpa Joe died
that's just where she waited to return.
Her grass is her legacy
left for me to resurrect.
And I am soothed by the rhythm
of the summer sprinkler
as it circles back, circles back,
baptizing the ground beneath.
