Family

Places round the table set,
Giving evidence to the size,
The scope and proximity
Of a family brought together
By food, by tradition, by love,
and the memory of a man
not related by blood,
But connected by admired courage
And the portraits that he painted.

Places round the table set,
Arms touching shoulders,
Elbows touching laps,
Heads of little ones oblivious
To the time and effort it took
To assemble this clan, this tribe
From all parts, distanced only by miles
And the new responsibilities
Of those little heads peeking in.

Places round the table set,
This year all marked by chairs;
The wheeled one in the bedroom
Immobile and disabled.
No hands to rotate the spokes,
No body to fill the foamed seat
Still impressed with the shape
Of the dead butt and legs
Whose loss we now mourn.

No, not mourn, but miss.
We miss the smile, the presence
Of the person who has touched
Each person who gathers
Round this set table.
We shyly recognize our sadness,
Filling the void with music,
walking towards the wheel
To place a rock as a remembrance.

A song sung to honor,
Words spoken to give worth
To a life that has touched all.
Tears are quickly wiped away
No sobbing is heard, no loss of control.
Privacy is respected.
In a darkened warm back room
On the floor of heated tiles
The hurting invades mercilessly.

But not all mourn or grieve.
Little minds thoughtless except
For food, dry butts, and sleep.
No crying here except for
Hunger, change or to be rocked
By a parent into dreamland
Where everything is good
And there is no hurt.