A Celebration of Life

A Celebration of Life

Phineas Van Maanen

A shovel does its work, and so does the person holding it.

No big ceremony, one empty chair, even the priest left.

Just one person attends, and it isn’t by choice.

As he works, he breathes through his mouth out of habit.

“Why do they always end like this?

I cover the faces of friends who buried me first.

I cover a handmade bouquet, wilted—made a pariah.

I cover a pillaged treasure chest, hinges busted open,

I reach down to try and lock it again—nothing.

I cover eighteen, a teen, lines of salt.

As I begin the next scoop, I look into the hole—

not quite six feet deep anymore.

I pause and step into my pit.

I brush off the earth atop these items and cradle them.

The only person who wasn’t invited, wept.

“You gave me wings of wax,

a leaky heart, that you filled over and over.

You gave me eyes and hands,

hope and doubt.

You gave me memories,

then decided I was best as one.”

I lay as the sounds grow muted and the sky darkens.

In the distance, faces glow, upturned.

Fireworks shatter the heavens as I sink.

Someone grabs my arm.

Rushing, gasping, I am free.

The ground is untouched and so is the sky.

I see no faces in sight.

I see in my arms a bouquet of flowers yet to bloom.

I see a diamond vase, strong yet open.

I see eighteen, a teen, and clean