After a funeral

They line up.
One by one.
And say
"I'm sorry."
All wearing black,
and I wonder what they are sorry for.
I stand
and smile,
but not too much.
And wait for it to be over.
What I want to do is collapse
and cry and let them surround me.
A circle of love
is ten times better
that a procession of sorrys.

Then I go home and pray agian.
Dear God,
What can I do?
He didn't deserve this.
Can't we bring him back?
Isn't there anything that will bring him back?
Please?
Amen

People constantly call
wanting to take me out to lunch
and talk things over.
I can't believe they feel like eathing.
And talking.
Those are the last things I want to do.

"It will make you stronger."
they say,
"You'll be okay. Life goes on."
They don't remember the grave they just saw
that is proof
that sometimes
life
does
not
go
on.

I blow them all off.
Being a jerk
is definately
one of the five stages of grief.

Eventually protocal states
that I have to leave my room
so I put on makeup
and be like a clown
and no one will see
the real face
behind the mask.
They can't see
the sad me.
The depressed me,
the shamed me.

It's so hard
to let go of someone who's died
and live your life again.
Leaving your greif is like
leaving that person.
So guilty.

The calls have stopped by now.
Everyone seems to think that once I've emerged,
that I'm fine.
That the supporting job is done.
They don't realize,
that by the time I'm ready to talk,
that's when I actually do need them.
A lot.

Few realize
that I don't need anything from them
but time
and love.

I don't need to cry
all the time.
I just need to know I can.
And have a shirt to soak with tears.
One that isn't mine.