Margaret

Today, I wore red to a funeral.
The congregation was a rainbow spectrum
of colours, a united attempt to cover all
of the ways that she touched
our lives.
A plethora of laughs rang loud in the hope
that she would hear, perhaps join in.

Today, I danced at a funeral.
Dust particles whirled along with us
in stained-glass beams of light.
We laced every speech with a joke,
cross-stitched love in the form of poems, songs;
every guest helped to lovingly cast off her life.

Today, I went to a funeral.
A man who, that day, was burying
a wife killed by cancer
for the second time
was whirled in a waltz down the pews
by his little great-granddaughter.
He directed a hallelujah upwards along with his
tears,
the words that followed
were as sure as his smile.
People apologised. He took their hands,
met their eyes, and told them that of course
He missed her, but of course
he would see her again,
one day.

Today, at a funeral, my own faith was put to shame
by a man who would have easily been excused
for losing his.

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