Memories of a Long Island Wake
I remember the length of the room.
Longer than was really needed,
but still so small so that I felt so claustrophobic inside.
I remember walking in, and seeing all the black.
I turned left, and got in line.
I hugged his daughters, then his wife

(I hadn’t seen her in a while).
Finally, I reached him.
I remember how red his shirt was

(Such a vivid shade of red).
I knelt in front of him. I bowed my head.
I begged God for an answer.
His mother wasn’t there.
She didn’t like what they were doing.
I remember spending most of the rest of the night
with my family, or myself.
I’d never met most of the people there

(he had a lot of friends

and a big family).
I remember the pictures.
Pictures of a happy man,
and his happy family.
I’m in some of them

(the older ones, mostly).
I remember the stories.
Bits of conversation that I picked up while wandering.
Stories of kindness. Nothing but
nice things were said there.
After all, he was a nice guy.
When I wasn’t pacing the room
or sitting alone
I was talking to my family

(I guess they were his family, too).
Not about him or her or death.
About anything to take my mind off of
him or her or death.
I didn’t want to think about death just then

(I still don’t).
I don’t want to die.
It costs too damn much.