Lamentations 6

Everything is in its place,
    yet the room is empty.
Boxes are neatly tagged,
shelves arranged,
things stored away,
    yet all is in chaos.
The calendar is open
    to an empty page.
Up to a point, it is all there:
    appointments,
    birthdays, anniversaries,
    things to do;
and then – blank.
    It comes to a stop.
The refrigerator is stocked with years’ worth of vitamins.
    The bills are paid, and filed.
    The sheets are changed, and the bed is made.
No one is there.

In a far country, across a border, I hear nothing.
    “Does your cellphone work in Canada?”
the last email reads.
    I’ll check. No.
Instead I am in a class the next day,
    on “the pastor as shepherd” no less.
A message from the office: Paul calls me over.
    You need to phone your mother.
I go downstairs to the telephone booth,
    dig out some change,
    get a credit card ready.
It is ready;
    I prepare myself for the worst I can imagine.
It is worse.
    “Bill shot and killed himself.”

The last coherent sentence,
    for some days,
    from my mother.
I am on a plane, a bus, in a car.
She is beside herself and cannot sign the papers,
    release the body to the funeral home. Not yet.
“I need to read the forms again.”
My sister-in-law says,
    “He will not come unless he is invited.”
“Well, I am here and I need you. I am inviting you.”
    They come. Long drive. Next day.
With many explanations and few tears,
    we coax her into signing the page.
A fax to Maryland –
    soon we will follow from California.


My bishop calls – he understands – words of comfort.
    The nearest parish will take care of my brother – and me.
Others don’t get it – “don’t say it” – I plead inside:
    They do. Insensitive to the point of stupidity.
   
But, then, talk about stupid.
    What was the point?

A set-up it seems – nearest kin being the youngest,
    the oblivious younger brother.
Neighbor tried to call him, didn’t make much sense.
    He hung up on her.
They called – not 911 – my mother, in California,
    a continent away. She had to make the call to 911.

When we finally get to the apartment days later,
    it has been cleaned up, some (crime scene cleaners).
The A/C is off.
    All is still.

All his photos are neat in plastic boxes centered on the kitchen table.
    One snap propped on top:
He is coming out of a movie, nieces and nephews with him.
    Above, the marquee: Kill Bill II.
I bury it among the others,
    until now.

We cannot believe how many people come to the funeral.
The little white chapel at the crossroads, once country,
    cannot hold them all.
Fifty people are left standing in the summer rain.

I have brought my last album of photographs.
    One I think to prop against – oh, those are his ashes.
I do not.
    I keep it back.
It is of Bill, from the back, running on the beach,
    hands outstretched to embrace
        wind
        sand
        surf
and     
        sky.

And hope?

I hope,
    against hope.

There is sadness even in this gesture, now poignant,
    perhaps a last prayer
                   (of sorts – to an unknown God)
    on his last visit home.

What is this silence, Lord?
    Why this desolation?
The inconsolate weeping of the widow,
    once again bereft,
disturbs the night,
    once again.

John R. Leech
June 18, 2011.