Pallbearer

A poem about my experience as a pallbearer at my grandmother's funeral

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak

Whispers the o’er fraught heart and bids it break.

                -William Shakespeare

 

The handle of the pall dug

into my shoulder.

The oak

a physical punishment for all

I hadn’t taken the time to do.

To say.

A lifetime of “I love you”s

said in five minutes,

rushed by the next

in line

who wants to prove

that he loved her too:

maybe even more.

 

A stifled sob sounded behind of me.

I made no effort to comfort my cousin;

my thoughts were far

from the present,

yet my feet trudged forward,

down the aisle,

and my trapezius obediently bore

the weight of my grandmother’s

ever-shrinking frame:

the bulk

mostly from the solid wood.

 

Subconscious physical action

carried out despite uncontrollable sobs.

In spite of inconsolable sobs.

Showing grief is accepted.

Expected.

But there is a time limit.

 

Not at all: “You didn’t love her.”

Too long: “You’re weak.”

Me.