“The kids are in town for a funeral…”
_____
They made him nervous, funerals and the tribute at the end, way sometimes overdone in early form of shaping legends that depart from true telling of who it is one was; the way people come home, to make time in death for another who they never made time for in life; the tears and remorse and despondence of not having said or shared or done what one had full time and life to do.
It made him uneasy. He didn’t want to live that way, or to think of his own end and into what his memory would be shaped and survive for as short-lived as human memories are: remaining lifetimes of children and grandchildren, and little longer in the living memory of man and woman.
And still he went, to honor the dead and to show to living they are loved.
She was there. He caught her eye, only a moment. Years and time flamed back, alive of a singe, awareness and attune resurrected from a dead.
She wore black, as modest as she ever was, holding eyes and drawing stares unknowing and untrying; tight draw of her hair, smooth to head, light strands painted in kaleidoscopic colors of sun through church stained glass; dance of it’s move in cloud-cover in pass, faint across sky beyond.
He never said a word. He rarely did, especially at funerals and remembrances in paradox of grief and efforts at happiness.
Service lived. Service ended. One by one, rows rose and left from pews in follow of family and casket from their place of honoring in front.
Eyes met again, alive of every memory saved and stored in mind and spirit and live of his flesh.
*****
He remembered the scent and ways of the summers, cricket and cicada songs—speed and strength of their songs in peak and full heat of ending day and way they slowed, softening too, in cooling of the night; heavy-humid of the summer air, weight of their clothes and never knowing whether of sweat or dampness absorbed from sky; strip pits’ reflect of sky above, swims in the neight, their clothes on the shore—moon’s show in every phase—Venus’ glowing in the west and follow-fall in trail of sun.
Scent of the grass, scent of the earth—when damp and, too, bone-dry; emerge of fireflies from hide in grass; floating, flashing luminescence as dance of earth-born stars; her lips in smile, their way of their straighten in aware and await of kiss; their taste, their feel, warm smooth seeking of her tongue; way of kiss and beginning touch led to more and full of love lived free under summer sky.
*****
Reception after, they moved in the crowds as when in the newness of their romance: bodies facing, directed to other, eyes and stares aware and seeing but never direct and long and gaze.
In crowd and event, they remained at a distance, close but never near, voices overheard but never directly speaking; and still, each listened and learned of the other what it was they wished to hear.
Evening arrived. Reception neared to end, and a song played in resonance to spirit of the scene.
“The kids are in town for a funeral
And the grass all smells the same…”
Lives were different, far apart, and the girl he knew from country home, escapes and stealings into the wild, lived aura of urban’s refine—styled and chic, modern, near-model amidst dress of smalltown and countryside.
Ring on her hand, one beside, and he thought of the one for whom they came, what he’d think to see her now, woman made by her becoming.
“If you could see em now, you’d be proud
But you’d think they’s yuppies…”
No words, but in catch of eyes, old ways restored again again.
He breathed the scent of summer world as skies lit pink in west amidst the day-ending blue; Venus bright in point and trail of sun, waxing crescent of restoring moon from new just nights before.
He stepped away and lit cigar smoking quiet and alone, staring on pink sky.
There was a time when she had followed, reading cue and quiet escape when both were tired of the crowds. She kept her distance. He knew she would, but in all the night, it was the only time he caught her eyes unbroken in length of hold.
Reception ended. He left alone in paradox of remorse and efforts at happiness in memories that are the way of funerals and old flames holding embers in their ash.
He played the song again, alone, returning east as pink skies of west took into flame.
_____
“So pack the car and dry your eyes.
I know they got plenty of young blood in ‘em.
And plenty nights under pink skies you taught ‘em to enjoy…”