Buried in the City That Care Forgot

by C. S. Nelson

Odd thing,
holding your father’s speckled grey remains
in the pink palm of your hand,

a pile of powder from a plastic bag
delivered to you in a varnished box
half the size of a loaf of bread.

He wanted his ashes scattered
over his mother’s grave.
The woman of whom he never spoke.

Of whom I never saw a photo
until they moved into assisted living
and a formal portrait, so young,

found its way onto the mantel.
I didn’t even know where her grave was.
Cousin Paul knew. St. Louis Cemetery #2,

the Robelot crypt. The tomb was splendid,
one of their mini–mansions of memory.
Four ornate pillars offset the comers

with just enough doo–dads to be grand
yet refined. Front stones engraved with
the given names, the dearly interred.

Nowhere, however, can we find Aimée,
his mother, who died when he was four.
Her name. Her death. That’s all we knew.

We never wondered how she died
or why he never spoke of her. We learned
early on not to knock on doors he locked.

Time comes to punch our nerves,
to the hand–cuffed letting go
of ashes and tears,

to tossing what’s left over the top
of the six–foot high, white–washed vault
only to watch the wind play rude.