Spaltter, drop

not what you may think

Count the droplets of the red painted windows
watch the walk of the black clothed widows.
Loss is natural and normal and bizarre and grotesque,
mourning an exercise in futility? No, an exercise in ubiquity.
We want to share pain, community suffering makes it easier to bear,
for a day where death is upon us, at least.
Then grandchildren go back to school
and children go back to raising grandchildren
and grandchildren suffer less
and more pain is on the widow,
the grandmother, the loss is immense.
Count the red drops of the last loss of life,
my eyes focusing on the black rain falling outside the funeral home.
I live next to it and see caravans of black cars at least once a week.
People die and people leave, it should be normal to us all by now,
but it is, each time, truly unique.