It's not easy to describe a funeral for a man you love and revere

The Widow’s Walk


The bell had barely finished striking eleven
When the bougainvillea sagged
And the palms were drooping in the heat.
The fat lady had sung
So the show should be over. Not.
A gentle hand on a friends arm
And a strong one on a cane
The widow walked. And walked.
Trailing weeping daughters
And distraught friends
She walked.
Covering ground that no-one believed she could
At a pace no-one believed she could.
And the crowd followed while the pelican stilled its noise.
Hurricanes be damned
There was reverence in this place
And all resting on the shoulder
Of the widow walking.

Such strength while others collapsed.
Stoic should be the paean.
Did she see the parking lot
Or feel the grass underfoot?
The sea-shell gravel path?
The hummingbird twittering above her daughters head?
The shoulders straight
Her Love determined
The widow walked.