I.
"They messed up his mouth."
Momma scolds the funeral home,
under her breath,
as her hand tentatively hovers
over your closed face.
Now, your lips are thin smudges
that barely cover the teeth.
Your lips were full once.
I remember.
I used to watch them.
As a child,
I watched
as they told stories, jokes, and dreams
while we all sat at the kitchen table.
The words that came then were
more restful than sleep.
I watched too
to distract myself from
the ungodly fear that I felt
when their pursing gave way to
the clench of your fists.
II.
You are so small,
like a child
wearing his father’s suit,
as you lie there
in the box.
Ten years before,
the suit fit you well.
I remember.
You sat at your desk
counting the days take,
pausing at intervals to
wet your finger with your tongue
to make the job easier.
With head down and
eyes focused intently
on your task,
you asked if I would be coming home
for the holidays.
I made some excuse,
a hollow one, that
made it obvious that
you would not be seeing me
that year.
Just for a moment,
you looked up.
The expression on your face was
the same one you wore
the night that
Momma fell.
I was shocked and
glad.
III.
To my surprise,
the box holds more than
a once was,
hastily bound together with
paper, wire, and glue.
All of your wounds
have risen to the surface.
I stand,
I look, and
I can't help but wonder:
Which ones did I inflict?
