At My Grandmother’s Funeral, Mine Is the Only Head Not Bowed in Prayer

Inside a bold V shape, an inverted reflection appears in a rippling puddle with fresh green grass sprouting along one edge. Outside the V, the image is in black and white, the water still, the grass dry.

But I’m still crying, still a mess, still remembering that I’m the reason she died in a wheelchair. How, when I was still small enough to be carried, she slipped and broke her hip while holding me. Everyone is whispering amen and I am all blasphemy, a faith tied only to soil. The preacher speaks about ascension, but I’m grounded, can’t stop staring at her hands. How they look like they could reach out. How they must have held me so tight when she hit the asphalt.

Kimberly Wolf

Kimberly Wolf is a poet and parent selling books in Texas. She is often dreaming of a mountain.

Header photograph by Linds Sanders
Header artwork by Jordan Keller-Wilson

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