Voices. The small, polite chatter of acquaitances catching up. Banal remarks like, “He was so close to retirement,” and “What will his son do now?”
I try to open my eyes. Nothing happens. I urge my lips to shape the words I want to say. Again, nothing. I try to lift one of my crossed hands. The same impotent result!
A saline aroma, and a sudden, shuddering sob. I hear her. Then him, crying, too. “Mom.”
“I’m right here!” I will myself to say, although this mouth refuses me. “I’m still right here!”
An aroma of incense. A recitation of scripture. A final call to say goodbye.
No! My heart must be thuddingโthey’ll hear. There has to be sweat on my browโthey’ll see! But they don’t. A creak, and whatever silhouettes of light pierced my concrete eyelids disappear.
“No! Don’t bury me! I can’t be dead! I can’t be!”
A thud, as my coffin’s lid seals over me.
fresh grave
perched on a bare bough
a lone crow
I’m hosting dVerse Poets’ Haibun Monday today, where we wax haibunic about fear!
The Pub is open! Come join us!
Frank J. Tassone 
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