The Darkest Hour

It wasn’t
the darkest hour
when I found out
he died.

I prayed
it was merely
a week-long nightmare
from which
I’d awaken.

Still,
I’d cried, laughed
written a eulogy
but mostly
that week
I held my breath
magically thinking
I’d awaken
and not be
fatherless.

The darkest hour
came later
when my widowed mother
couldn’t bear
to let anyone
go home.

The funeral was done.
The reception was finished.
Her house was empty.

Crushed
by the weight
of his absence
the darkest hour
that started
in 1999

still isn’t finished
yet.

Skeletons

The skulls
the bones,
lie in the dirt
in the desert,
among lonely cacti
against hot,
unforgiving skies.

They were once
alive with ambition,
inflamed with passion,
wracked with worry.

Now,
they are but
silent reminders,
mute witnesses
to the sheer folly
of empty bluster
and shiny objects.

Skeletons
bring the wisdom
that even the richest
among us,
those most privileged,
will share
the same
exact fate
with the humble.

Who will leave
a richer legacy,
the humble
who shared freely
the fruit
of their grace

or those
who lived
in opulent vanity,
clutching every crumb
to their bosom
lest it be stolen?

Skeletons
remind me
of what is
important.

Ofrenda (A Dia de los Muertos Offering)

Were I “that kind of Mexican”

I’d make an authentic

ofrenda,

instead of this:

por mis abuelos,

for Trini

who always had hugs and

warmth in her smoker’s rattle voice,

y Juan

and his ever present stubble which

scraped my face with each embrace,

y Irene

whose caustic humor

belied a broken life and body.

Then there are mis tios:

Rudy the bear,

Ray the quiet genius,

Fernie the garage philosopher,

Eddie the passionate spark,

Kiki the gentle soul,

Carmen the humble and strong,

y Nancy the loud, proud eagle.

Then, there are my cousins,

Celia and Johnny,

both taken too damned soon.

Finally,

mi Pop,

Daniel (pronounced Dan-Yell),

called Copi,

short for “el Capitan”

who gave me everything he could.

I send my prayers

to God

in thankfulness,

in wonder,

and I pray

for each of you

to send me

what I need

from wherever you are

now.

Welcomed Silence

The saving grace
of the funeral service
is rather than
the awkward volley
of stilted talk
with distant relatives,
it is perfectly
acceptable
to sit silently,
and offer
a supportive smile.

In this rare,
welcomed silence,
it becomes
profoundly clear
there are
no words big enough,
no sentiment tender enough,

to explain
what has been done
to my 49 year old cousin,
Johnny.

Posted for Poets United .

What I Kept From My Father (a Dia de los Muertos tribute)

I kept his humility
but not his shyness.

I kept his loyalty
but not his tribalism.

I kept his laughter
but not his derision.

I kept his discipline
but not his strictness.

I kept his skepticism
but not his cynicism.

I kept his patriotism
but not his blind allegiance.

I kept his faithfulness
but not his routine.

I kept his integrity
but not his inflexibility.

I kept his hairline
but not his irregularity.

I kept his high cholesterol
but not his naivete.

I keep him inside me
but never hide him.