I was alone at the funeral,
my blonde hair flowed in natural waves catching the dim light.
It contrasted sharply with the long streak of black near the front
mixing in, tainting the blonde, but matching in color with
the deep folds of my lacy dress and leathery leggings.
She would tell me that I always wear leggings.
Even being outside, the air still hung with the smell of the dead
and dying.
It was cold, but snow rarely fell here.
As I turned my gaze up towards the slate colored sky,
the clouds returned my stare as if they might cry,
but were not moved to rain just yet.
I looked up at the heavens with my silent question,
'Did you want me to cry for you?'
The funeral service ended without me hearing a word,
though I don't think people came here to hear words.
I wondered if she came to hear the words said of her.
At her memory my legs wobbled and I fell to my knees,
with no particular concern to the strangers watching.
I let out the tears I promised the clouds,
as my fingers pulled at frozen tendrils of grass.
I didn't think they were loud tears,
But they brought a woman to me, just the same.
With short brown hair and tired eyes,
She looked down at my crumpled heap and asked,
"I haven't seen you before. Who are you?"
I ignored her accusation, strife does not belong at a funeral.
I pushed down my acidic belief -
this woman should have taken the time to know me before.
With the dying flames of my courage I responded,
"I am the woman who loved your daughter."
I turned away from emotions I could not read in her eyes,
and watched the ground for signs of her retreat,
away from the taint of me - from the taint of my love.
But I was not left alone to mourn;
another came.
His white hair looked like the unfallen snow,
and his eyes held grief, despair, and something else -
confusion perhaps,
at how he found himself at this funeral.
I heard his shuffling steps before his deep measured breathing,
broke the muffled world of my frosted ears.
I met his eyes, both of ours blurred and swollen from tears,
Tears for her? Tears for ourselves? Tears for the clouds?
"Who are you?" He said gently, calculating my presence.
Defensiveness had left me with each drop of salt water,
and robbed me of any acid to use to poison my words.
With an expression unashamed and broken I said simply,
"I am the woman who loved your daughter".
The man nodded, as if knowing me and himself for the first time.
I watched him walk away, but soon looked to the ground below me.
Without a precursing sound another figure came and sat beside me,
glowing with a light so bright I couldn't see the figure's face.
Even as the light cleared, I both knew and did not know him,
Or her?
The figure's gentle arm threaded across my shoulders,
the white rope contrasting loudly with my black dress.
Though I flinched, I did not pull away;
the comfort was precious in the weight of my pain.
As we remained there silence stretched into understanding;
I grew to know the identify of one whose arms held me.
Softly, with a reverence I didn't know my voice could possess, I said,
"I am the woman who loved Your daughter".
