Burial

I lie here near tree roots on moss-laden lawn, cracked tree bark, yellow leaves. I am remembering you, Father-- the last time. Hospital beds are for clinging to, and for letting go of. . . for flying away. And wasps fly at the base of this tree on this summer day. Do angels fly prone, or upright? Forward, or backward like memory? I turn on this summer grass, blades pricking my belly, and I inquire of the angels. We all have questions of the after-life, even the wasp, his stinger engaged. Is he so informed? The gray squirrel knows of these things better than I. He flicks his tail, buries a large seed, then scurries off.