When Menegal awoke, it was dawn. He glanced at the tired Hilfarey at his side. Sitting up and trying to rise, he fell backward onto the pallet and realized he could not stand, unless with great pain on account of his ankle.

“You will not be able to stand for a while. Therefore, I have provided this,” said Hilfarey, lifting up a crutch made of wood with some linen tied around the top for comfort. Hilfarey then helped Menegal arise and showed him how to walk with it. After learning to walk in a new fashion, he thanked Hilfarey and went to Golwitch’s tent.

I met the dark steps that lead to the living room, which wasn’t appealing but it was better than sleeping in the same room with my cousin, Allison, who snores.
I walked down the creaking stairs and to the living room and sat down on the couch. I fluffed up the feather pillow in my hand and laid down covering myself with a cashmere blanket.
As I laid there half a sleep I remembered my live before my parent’s died.
We resigned in a huge house in a gated neighborhood called Oak Fall’s in New York City.

We have a book by a man named Mr. Dobson. It's full of Christmas stories told from the point of view of a person... all of which make my dad cry and sometimes everyone else, too. I tried to write this in the same style as that book, attempting to create a Christmas story... not that would make people cry, but that would be a touching story... yeah...

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There is blood on her fur-coat,
from when his nose started to bleed,
when she embraced him,
at the funeral.
There is a tear on his shoe,
from when she cried,
as he held her,
at the funeral.
There is lipstick on his cheek,
from her parted, seventy-year-old lips,
from when she kissed his cheek,
at the funeral.
And there is Julie, who is three,
doing silly magic tricks,
in the parlor,
at the funeral.
And the dead one is watching Julie,
laughing and smiling,
at the funeral.

No, I must disagree
Death is not a thing of beauty
Of joy in afterlife
Death is not a thing of poetry
Of romantic notions of love
Left behind

For those who are yet alive
Death hits you like a betraying punch
Like a slip on the stairs
At the bottom of which
You look up unpleasantly surprised
And hurt
You shake yourself off
And tell yourself it’s nothing
But you’re black and blue
And in pain

I

Why can't the sun spray the blue sky sea with paint, or put on its frock and mix up its paints and paint me a morning?
Take your brushes, Sun, and sweep them across my sky-canvas.
Wake up my darkness and make it sing to me. Give it a voice.
Give it words to paint across my eyes and give me eyes to watch you at your work. Give me ears to hear your song.

II

I thought I saw you walking next to me, as I stepped upon the Chapel floor
Turns out I was wrong though, for what I saw was only the Chapel door.
I thought I heard your voice behind me, and so I quickly glanced around
But I was wrong once again… and the bare wooden pew was all I found.
I thought I saw your small red car, while we were on our way back home
I was sure I sighted some short grey hair, but I was wrong, and felt alone.

I give you now my hand
We’ll walk in to the right
I’ll watch the sea sway upon the sand
Watch over me, in peace, tonight

For I am ready to receive You
For I am ready to believe in You
I can feel the death around me
But I am not afraid to die

Cause all who believe in You
All who thirst and drink Your water
Shall never die
Shall always live
And that’s the way I’m walking on
With all my soul to give

here, all pretense is
gone, the situation is
plain and simple: we
are a small group of
people, we are alive
standing beside a hole
human hands dug with
shovels, dirt piled into
a mound, square sides
of the hole scraped clean

in that hole, in that
plain wooden box
is a body, formerly
a person. in that hole
the world as we know
it has ended forever.
the sun shines, it
is warm. the rabbi
says that death is not
our normal way.

O solitude of emptiness
of grief
a hole through your heart
that love makes
when it is betrayed by the loss of Eden
the sudden absence of what should be
as familiar as life
and the glare against your eyes
against your heart
of what should not
and what is making you
cracking
breaking you