Over the hill, in the far back corner of Grandpa's fifty acres,
Where the massive oak he and Grandma planted in their youth still stands,
There's five graves all lined in a solitary row,
And on the end--

A sixth one dug fresh.

We'll lower Grandpa there tomorrow,
Next to Grandma in his Sunday best,
A flannel button down, worn jeans and those ostrich skin boots he'd worn to church my entire life.

She left us two summers ago,
When the daffodils were beginning to fade.
The grief that haunted him weighed him down,
Made his shoulders too heavy a burden to hold up anymore.
He slowed down a week at a time,
His cheeks caving in a little more,
His frame bending a little more,
His eyes dimming a little more with every smile he tried to force for us.

Sometimes when someone as old yet as young as he was loses their spouse,
They pour into their newfound solitary freedom,
A little pep in their step that wasn't there before,
Taking advantage of the years they have left to start a new story--

But not Grandpa.

We watched him run headfirst into Death,
Knocking the gates to heaven wide open as if he had taken it under siege,
As if his love was being held captive within against her will--

And I suppose that was true in his mind.

And while he must be having the greatest reunion up there,
We stand down here huddled around a powder blue casket that holds what's left behind--

A frail, broken shell of the man we all once knew--

A shell that at some point in time had been filled with nothing but light--

And life.

A light--

And a life--

That packed up its things and moved out when Grandma died.

© caspershay