Rites of passage

My mother’s funeral
did not take place in an
American high school auditorum,
neither was the local rag
reporter in attendance.
No one wore football pads or swimming gear;
I was not in clericals,
being unordained as yet,
and having no
burning desire to bury her.

 
My father was, in fact, messily, bodily,
solidly present. Excepting these things,
the dream was remarkably accurate,
and waking, wrung out, and exhausted.

 

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