Tess Lockhart
  • God Poetry
    • A Preacher's Prayer
    • Advent
    • Advent Watch
    • Ordinary Advent Time
    • First Christmas Post Husband Mortem
    • Christmas Bread
    • Ding Dong Dung
    • Christmas Credo
    • Incarnation Narrative
    • Starlings in Epiphany Snow
    • Evensong in Bleak Midwinter
    • Imposition of Ashes
    • Lenten Ruth
    • Langston Hughes on Maundy Thursday
    • Maundy Thursday's Scattering
    • Good Friday Tenebrae
    • Gardening Holy Saturday
    • Mourning, Holy Saturday
    • A Little Hilaritas What If
    • Milton on Easter Monday
    • Pentecost Invitation
    • For All the Saints
    • Winter Solstice
    • Evening Prayer for the Beloved
    • Incarnation's Repair
    • The News Was Not Good
    • Just Jump Already
    • Job's Modern Lament
    • Uncle!
    • Worship
    • St. Valentine
    • Response to a Dr.'s Rhetorical Question
    • A Prayer of Praise
    • Renunciation and Adherence
  • Marriage Poetry
    • A River of Words
    • Beloved Baptism
    • Anniversary Gift
    • Aching Pain
    • Disappointment for Nothing
    • A Lament of Recognition
    • A Marital Parable Revealed
    • Kissing Death
    • Grief
    • Extinguished
    • Not Exactly Thecla
    • Rectify
    • Love Beyond Terror
    • St. Valentine
    • Divorce
    • Marital Haiku
    • A Mockingbird
    • All for Love
    • Love's Transubstantiation
    • Enough of Love's Ideal Poems
    • My Lie
  • Healing Poetry
    • A Child Abuse Victim
    • At Grandma's Funeral
    • Confronting Nothing
    • For Want of a Ritual
    • Gardening Widow's Weeds
    • Ghost Whisperer Grief Obsession
    • Grief Drought
    • Swimming with Grief's Fear
    • Five Years Post Mortem
    • Middle-Aged Dating
    • Fire and Water
    • Canoe Wrecked
    • Desire Beyond Reason
    • A Survivor's Haiku
    • Baptismal Renewal
    • Of Children, Pigs, and Priests
    • Sometimes
    • The Trickiness of Doors
    • Tenured Otherwise
    • Turtle Soup
  • Quotidian Poetry
    • Cookies for Dragons
    • Leaving My Daughter at College
    • To Mom on Her Birthday
    • On the Third Day
    • Ode to Bermuda Grass
    • Mundane Revelation
    • Sorry White People
    • Truculent Ode to Poetry
    • Twisted
    • DeFuniak Springs

At Grandma's Funeral

They call it denial,
but you can’t tell me
she’s dead.  

Some people are too big to die,
and she’s one.    

The largess of her animating spirit
has now joined with
the Great Spirit
she embodied
in her own sinful
and hilarious ways
that taught us God’s wisdom
in everyday things
as she played endless
children’s games (often cheating!),
slipped extra butter and sugar
into whatever she cooked,
taught us to polka and jitterbug,
applied arnica, Vicks VapoRub,
calamine, mercurochrome, and castor oil
to whatever ailed us,
bought us 18 karat gold jewelry
she sacrificed for,
taught us to ride bikes,
hopscotched, roller-skated, and
sledded down the hill 
with all the rest of us kids,
though well past the age 

when she should have. 

No, she simply cannot die.
 
At baptism she died into life
and lived the resurrection
to its fullest,
teaching Sunday school,
singing louder than everyone else in church
where she always had gum
in her big Grandma purse
from whence came offerings for all grandchildren--
money passed down the pew in a race
to make it to the recipient 

before the plate got there.     
Even when I was thirty and and ordained
she tried to give me money for an offering
whenever I visited.  

It was her nature.


So she couldn’t help herself.
She was always giving.
She gave most everything away--
her birthday, Christmas, anniversary presents--
admired with grace, then passed on
to someone who could use them more,
much to the givers' annoyance sometimes.

Her porch was magic space,
gathering people from across the nation
who’d come to bask in her hospitality

and argue religion and politics
with sex talks reserved 
for the women in the kitchen--
all the things one didn't discuss
in polite company.
Whoever was there at 5:00, ate--
fried steak, baked beans, and cottage cheese--
every Saturday night.
She served life at her Kingdom table
And, in service to others in the community,
demanded justice and fairness
and an accurate account
from public officials she bugged and bothered.  

"Right is right, and wrong is wrong,"
and "life is what you make it,"
she’d say, shaking her finger at ya,
and with clear blue eyes under snow white hair,
she’d look at you and you knew
she meant business,
and her business was Life in all its abundance.
She was always about her Father’s business.

She was nothing special to look at--
she wore old combat boots
and her husband’s insulated flannel shirts
over whatever came out of the drawer that morning,
usually polyester pastels that generally matched ok.
Truth is, she’d have been a good contestant
for What Not to Wear
except she’d have bought undershirts
for the homeless with her five thousand dollars
and fished her old stretched, stained clothes
out of the garbage can, subduing even Stacy.
She’d have endured the free haircut
and would die before she’d wear lipstick,  
frustrating all artists of illusion. 
But there she’d stand at the end,
decked out as the most glorious angel
she was . . . and now is.

So that body there dressed in a somber suit
of sophisticated colors with fine textures,
that face not smiling with radiant joy
but masked in make-up
with eyes closed, not looking,
that hair not flying in the wind as she worked,
those hands resting still--
that’s not her lying there.

She’s gone.

But she’s not dead 

because her life cannot die.
It can only return
from Whence it came,
bossily demanding, “Follow me.”   
 

                             © 2007, Tess Lockhart.  All rights reserved.

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