Early in the morning. A Tuesday. Early spring.
A rain came in the night. Now the sun is shining.
A watercolor sunrise through the chapel windows.
A plain casket. A young woman, unknown, lost.
We found a poem written to an unrequited love.
We found the pewter medal of St. Michael.
We didn’t find her name, or her home, far away.
We wrapped her in the burial linens, tender and kind.
We placed her in the casket like she was our own child.
It’s a soft and quiet morning this Tuesday, still so cool.
I pray now, as we say a few words, as we give her a
dignified passing out of this world, into the crematorium
that she’ll be welcomed in loved in heaven beyond us,
beyond this lonely world, and all it’s frailty and it’s evil,
and be welcomed home and nothing will ever be sorrowful again.
Tuesday. The sun is growing brighter and stronger, the remnants
of the rain evaporating away now, and it will be warm this afternoon.
I say a prayer for one lost and left behind. So many who have no names.