The Burial

by Douglas Polk

getting out of the car she seemed worn and faded,
maybe it was the snow washing her color away,
her husband complained about the emptiness,
and driving through a blizzard on a stretch of road which reminded him of Siberia,
wondered why anyone would live here,
then caught my eye,
and apologized,
no offense taken I said,
she seemed a stranger,
until my younger brother called her old,
and made her smile,
for a moment I saw her,
the girl I had loved,
and chased away to the big city,
and this other man's arms,
she asked how the end was,
I lied,
and told her,
her mother did not suffer at all,
the guilt in her eyes,
told me she saw through my lie,
no matter,
in a few days after the funeral,
the memory will fade and evolve,
the guilt will begin to disappear,
unless improperly buried,
the guilt,
then festers and fills with promises broken,
remembered as the years fly by,
leaving scars upon the soul,
her mother said prayers for evolution,
as will I.