Dressed in my only suit,
I was led to Grampa's coffin;
Mama held me with one hand
and cried with the other.
I wanted to cry, too.
I didn't.
It was the first time
I'd ever seen grampa
without his pipe.

Mama stayed inside
crying with all the women;
I got to go out with my father
because I was a man, too.
They all stood around shuffling,
uneasy in their stiff suits,
smoking and joking,
their muffled laughter
mingling with the smoke.
I shuffled, too.
I wasn't allowed to smoke.

Uncle Bill told about the time
he was a deputy sheriff.
There was a robbery.
He hadn't even gotten his gun out
when he was face to face with the robber.
The robber had eaten fried onions.
Uncle Bill's face was powder burned,
but he missed.
Uncle Bill still remembers
the sound of the bullet
speeding past his ear,
The robber got away.
Uncle Bill never became sheriff.

Uncle Claude remembered
driving his car into a train.
Becoming completely sober
the second before he hit.
The car tearing to pieces,
feeling each one of his bones breaking,
hearing people running,
the doctor whispering,
certainly he couldn't survive;
Gramma holding his hand,
softly sobbing.
"One foot in the grave,
but the other one wouldn't go.'"
Everybody chuckled.

Dad told a war story,
the kind I'd never heard before
and never again.
No one laughed.
The boat stopped too far from shore.
Screams and bombs and cries.
Left alone,
trying to hide,
knowing he'd be found.
He stayed there and it got dark
and quiet;
afraid to move,
waiting and praying.
Even crying.
When the sun finally shone through
he could see
the burning boats,
smoldering sand.
He wasn't alone.
They had won.

The cigarettes were done.
The smoke had cleared
when the women came out.
Everybody went home.
There was no more crying
or story telling.
Mother and father
stayed up very late.
I had to go to bed.

November 1981