George's Departure (an alphabet poem)
Crystal Senter-Brown
As I was learning how to write my name in cursive at West Elementary School, you were dying
Bound by tubes and breathing machines, you never once
Cursed the nurses or
Doctors, your faith allowed you to welcome the
End, even if we didn't. At
First I didn’t believe you were actually
Gone, even when Nannie took me by the arm
Heaving me up to see you in your casket
I didn’t want to look at you, I
Just wanted to go home and to rewind the clock back to seven days ago when you
Kissed me on my forehead and gave me Cheetos before we
Left for school. But now, family
Members and friends
Not knowing what else to do, carried in caramel cakes and buckets of fried chicken,
Orange jello molds and gallons of sweet tea, which we
Pretended to actually need. These strange people were
Quick on their feet, readying the kitchen's church fellowship hall, leaving neat stacks of
Red cloth napkins, ironed and ready for your repass. I
Sat in the front pew and watched you, your skin flat and
Tinted two shades too dark by an amateur mortician, your suit jacket crammed
Underneath you. My grandfather was certainly no longer there. I still miss your
Voice, and the
Way you could find music and beauty in anything, from Nannie’s silver spoons to my toy
Xylophone, to the
Zinnias in our garden, which have refused to bloom since the day you died.
As I was learning how to write my name in cursive at West Elementary School, you were dying
Bound by tubes and breathing machines, you never once
Cursed the nurses or
Doctors, your faith allowed you to welcome the
End, even if we didn't. At
First I didn’t believe you were actually
Gone, even when Nannie took me by the arm
Heaving me up to see you in your casket
I didn’t want to look at you, I
Just wanted to go home and to rewind the clock back to seven days ago when you
Kissed me on my forehead and gave me Cheetos before we
Left for school. But now, family
Members and friends
Not knowing what else to do, carried in caramel cakes and buckets of fried chicken,
Orange jello molds and gallons of sweet tea, which we
Pretended to actually need. These strange people were
Quick on their feet, readying the kitchen's church fellowship hall, leaving neat stacks of
Red cloth napkins, ironed and ready for your repass. I
Sat in the front pew and watched you, your skin flat and
Tinted two shades too dark by an amateur mortician, your suit jacket crammed
Underneath you. My grandfather was certainly no longer there. I still miss your
Voice, and the
Way you could find music and beauty in anything, from Nannie’s silver spoons to my toy
Xylophone, to the
Zinnias in our garden, which have refused to bloom since the day you died.