On Eagle’s Wings

I don’t know why
I always cry so hard
at funerals.

She doesn’t notice.
And she probably
wouldn’t like it.

But when the incense
burns the inside
of my nose and I
sit quietly while
the voices are raised
in prayer around me
(because although I know
all those words by heart
they don’t mean anything
to me personally and I would
consider it disrespectful to
parrot them as I did all
the days of my youth)
I think the reason
it always cuts me so
is that deep inside
I know that I will
never have this.

I don’t really want this.

But there is no denying
the weight of it all
the cross hung
on the pillar
and the sun shining
bright enough to blind me
through the tall stained
glass windows as en masse
these people rise to receive
the embodiment of
their savior.

He is not my savior.
But I don’t think
that I am damned.

Is it sacrilege to say
I intend to save myself?

Don’t get me wrong.

There is a god.
Maybe there are many.
And I see them everywhere.

I don’t know why
I always cry so hard
at funerals.

I don’t really want one.
The one blessing in disguise that I see when people die in quick succession around me, is the opportunity to grieve for all of them at once, if perchance I don’t get the individual opportunity.

Zac’s father died. And it was so sad. Made doubly so by the fact that I couldn’t be there physically for his service. And then the woman who lived across the street from us, who was old when *I* was a child, finally went to her rest at 92 years old.

And I went to the funeral and I cried for her. And I cried for him. And I cried for me, too. And I said goodbye. And isn’t that the point?


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