Deaths and Life

I wake with some aches dreading
the jobs of the day before my coffee.
Sitting up against the big pillows, hearing
the shower sound of my early-morning
wife, I sing Amazing Grace as I could
not beside Frances’ grave yesterday.

So many thoughts flood in:
“. . . sing a Protestant hymn,” the
Catholic priest charmed. I smile with
nearly empty mug in hand, remembering
his impish, Irish face with affection,
thinking I could have been Catholic.

But no, I can no more be Catholic
than I can be Protestant. I laid my hand
on her lovely casket poised above her
open grave, looking back to her good
life, not ahead as were the believers.
She used her time gently. I praised her.

The schism in the believers does not
touch me, for God made his fish in the
sea and the redwoods and the fresh water,
and left us to do the best we can. And
our best includes Frank Lloyd Wright,
Louis Armstrong and Shakespeare.

I dress in my Levis and work boots
and head out early to set up the tasks for
the first class. Maybe if I work hard and
achieve my goals, all the good Franceses
will be honored. Being is magnified
in a field of graves.