My funerals were solitary affairs.
I was the priest, grave-digger, mourner,
head bowed over the body,
muddy shovel on the ground beside.
It gave me space to fumble
through my religion, to feel
the familiarity of "I hope you're
running in heaven now" shift
to the strangeness of "I hope your
next life is better." Longer, sweeter,
less violent at the end. Fewer hawks.
I'm good at grieving, I'm good at burying.
I'm good at doing it alone.
Those in attendance would be me,
two Pin Oaks, a cardboard box, and
a shovel. I've become very good at
funerals. Good at handling stiff,
cold bodies, good at talking to
glazed eyes like they need comfort.
Good at patting down the dirt and
putting a rock overtop so coyotes
and fox wouldn't dig it up.
I'm good at grieving, I'm good at burying.
Just not when it comes to you.
But when it comes to the hamster,
to the spoon I brought up with me,
to the research I did, to holding his
stiff little body while you made
arrangements, I was good. I knew how.
I knew how to unstick the paper
from his dried, popped-out eye, how
to cradle his little body, how to not be scared
when you couldn't bear to touch him
and asked me to take him out.
I'm good at grieving, I'm good at burying.
I'm good at preparing the dead.
I keep swearing to stop loving you.
To hold you at an icy distance, to
seek either removal or retribution
for the cracks you left in my
foundation. For how easily you
make me want to relapse. But
the second he died, the second
you asked for help, I was there.
I was open handed, bearing
the tiny, palm-sized corpse.
I'm good at grieving. I'm good at burying.
I'm not good at burying you.
So I'm convinced, as I held
the icy little body, as I tucked
him into his casket so you
couldn't see his grotesque eye,
as I shielded him from you
so you wouldn't have to see
him in eerie, unmoving death,
that love is stored in the
hamster. You hugged me then,
thanked me, teary-eyed.
I'm good at grieving. I'm good at burying.
I'm not sure if my love was habit for him or you.
