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She looked peaceful in her lavender dress-
as I suppose she was. Eyes closed as if lost
in childhood dreams, small hands folded across her chest.
Her glasses resting beside her auburn strands,
lips pleading for color, her face dove white and soft.

Her funeral was on a Friday. April was gently sliding into place,
crowding out winter's breath, the grass no longer
bearded with frost. I sat in a pew staring down at my
black patent leathers willing tears not to fall,
squelching the undertows of pride as I was angry at
everyone and everything...most of all death.

Her hands were an older version of mine, though more worn,
lined with age and weather- nails painted- polish half-chipped
usually the color of crimson, as red as the heat from a
summer sun, occasionally Passion Merlot, but always 
matching her lips.

Strange... the things I recall that day.
Mourners clotted into seats, crowded together like a
misfitted jigsaw- Fanning away the heat with hymnals.

It was unseasonable warm for spring, with bursts of new life
making the gnawing pain in my heart even worse.
Strange...the vases of flowers queued on shelves at the altar,
their blooms flashing colors of a Hawaiian sunset
showing no regard, no remorse, no regret,
teasing me with their jaunty heads wagging slightly
from a fan's swirling breeze.

Strange...the sunlight spangling a polished beige floor with
rainbows from stained glass panes, paying no homage to
such a grave occasion.
I thought it more fitting to see a blanket of clouds
bringing forth torrents of cold, grey rain.

The air was ripe with grief that day.
Aunt Pearl's perfume tormented my nose,
having doused enough on for a Sheik's harem.
It had the pungent odor of a fading rose, 
or a bit like Uncle Earl Jim's cologne.
My face took refuge in the sleeve of my blouse.

Oh how I longed to breathe my mother's scent once more,
that of lemon polish and a faint minty aroma of menthol
from her Virgina Slims.

Suddenly, the organ resounded mighty notes,
and the preacher's voice boomed glorious words of praise,
remanding my mother's life, lamenting as in sackcloth and ashes.
There were nodding heads, pretending to know,
holding prayer beads in white gloved hands.

Strange...how could they know of her life and her love?
How would they know of her songs, or her hands, like mine-
or the color of her nails always matching her lips,
or her minty lemon scent?
Nobody could know except me...
and the one in the lavender dress.
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