A first mourning.
Protocols veil
customary expectations.
A single tear —
grief’s initiation.
Navigating unfamiliar exequies.
The tear that
dammed an avalanche
somehow yielded.
I imagined that
I had witnessed the
tear
drop’s
formation.
Its
———stretching ———membrane
straining to contain
the world.
Swollen heavy with the burden
of what was expected.
A draughty church,
stale and
cold with duty.
And my father in the aisle —
carrying his own.
A solitary tear —
resting visible on his cheek,
his sadness surrendered.
One
single
tear.
Private grief witnessed
on public display
from the second row
where I stood stiff
behind hard pews.
Senses assaulted
by hollow hymns
echoing
the peculiar dust and draft
of occasional religion.
I sought reprieve
complying for respite
these structured rites.
Saturated by eulogies and prayers.
My father’s tear
doused such childish expectations.
I broke protocol,
weeping countless tears —
as the mantle passed to him.
