First Funeral

Mom is downstairs, I saw her
Go down in her black dress,
Heard her clack the wooden steps,
Carrying her black handbag. She
Left her perfume stalled in the air,
A flower I’ll never name but
It must be violet and dusky and rare,
And I can feel it fall onto my hands
And neck, each sensation
Smaller than a pinprick, softer
Than a sprinkler’s mist. I wonder
when’s the next time I’ll smell
this scent again.

Dad is down there too, I can hear
His fingers tap the counter,
His wedding band a drumstick.
He is in black as well, a suit
That makes his shoulders
Proud. Mine look false
In the mirror, full of air
And set to burst.

I can hear the shower stop
Raining in the next room,
my brother open and slide
Shut the translucent doors.
I’ll have to finish soon,
If I can force my fingers to stop
Their fumbling,
So he can use the mirror
To comb his straight hair
And tie a knot around his neck.
I close the door and leave
The light off. It is dark,
But I can see enough.

The sun is peeking around
My parents’ shades. It is seven o’clock,
And I can’t tie a tie.