Death In Chicago

She wrote a letter Which I happily read In Spring Summer baked on Autumn arrived with a chill in the air Winter followed with snow Then the call came Aunt Stella had passed away Two months shy of her eighty-seventh birthday Could I travel to Chicago for the funeral? My cousin’s voice Was anxious Time was short I would have to leave tomorrow. The wind brought tears to my eyes And I remembered why Chicago was called the windy city. The funeral was surreal My cousin and I were lost in the room Our voices echoed in the chamber We were the only attendees Where was the rest of the family The funeral director nodded He understood More than we did. Before the sad procession to the cemetery We walked to her house In no particular hurry Talked old times Remembered when There, nestled under trees We peered through Rain stained windows Looked inside an empty house Sunlight streaming through a den door facing a back garden We left quietly. At the cemetery there was a delay Impulsively I began reading headstones At random Nearby were three Aligned in a row Each with the same last name Following its own order of death I made out a father, an uncle And a young boy Age ten Standing over his grave I caught a glimpse of something faded red and metallic Chipping the frozen ground I saw Buried A toy truck How long had it been there I could only guess. As the Priest mumbled Half forgotten Catholic prayers I bent down and carefully Pressed the toy Back into the cold Brittle earth As it was Meant to be Years and years ago. When the service ended We looked at each other My cousin and I Thoughts and deeds Of long ago Brought back memories I called out to him Look after yourself. He smiled and turned You visit. Stay in touch. The Priest remained Where he was The cold winter sun Reflecting his bright colored vestments.