The tears are shed
and the words are spoken
and the body, blessed,
is laid under six feet of cold ground.
We walk away reeling, at least inside,
holding each other together
all the way to the church auditorium
where we collapse
in front of tables filled with food.
I remember raisin bread, cheese, pickles.
Or was it ham sandwiches and squares?
We have buried someone.
We have to eat.
We have to eat together.
We might only nibble,
but we hold the bread for dear life,
we clutch the cups.
We turn to each other,
we laugh, we cry some more,
we listen to stories.
And just as the valley of the chasm of loss
wants to swallow us up,
this sweet and savoury meal
improbably sustains us,
pulling us from the darkness of grief,
like a resurrection from the dead.