Glorious Dead
Glorious Dead
When I was eight, my aunt died.
Her crumpled form was found
lifeless
over the open dishwasher.
Her funeral was full of family-
women and men crying -
children fidgeting; not understanding.
There was a wake after,
we children ran and played
and forgot the reasons for our
togetherness.
When I was fourteen, my grandmother died.
Her withered body succumbed to cancer of the
soul.
Her faith diminished, there was no
funeral, no last prayer. There was a
wake, family and friends
supporting the grieving.
No longer was I one of the children
who ran and played. I
could not forget the reasons for our
togetherness.
Sometimes I wonder who came
up with the phrase “Glorious Dead”.
I think that nothing about death is
glorious.
And then I think of you.
Maybe it would be easier than how
you insist on living. Perhaps death
would be glorious, compared to your
life.
Perhaps “Glorious Dead” springs from
“the glory days”. That in death,
you are remembered by your glorious
past. Your best side shining in
the eyes of those left behind.
And then I think of you.
Maybe it would be harder to find
something particularly glorious
about the life you’ve lead.
I can think of nothing glorious
about being dead.
And then I think of you.
