After the funeral finished, they sat in their car

and ate egg salad sandwiches my grandmother made,

watching each vehicle wobble up and down

deep ruts sliced through cemetery lane,


 
behind the wall of their white windshield,

wet sloppy snow splattered them invisible—

watching three men bury an old farmer's body

in a fresh frozen space not long 

enough to conceal the coffin.


 
The men yelled blame back and forth 

until one worker severed the end of the casket, 

shoved the farmer's laced shoes further

into the pine box, placing the end piece on top,

sliding their secret down the mouth of the grave.


 
My grandparents drove home, shaking

in the chill of what they witnessed, 

frozen inside truth they told me

late at night in their living room,


 
a fear they felt every day after, repeating
 
the promise I made to them, to stay close 

through their burial day, choosing me 

in my fourteenth year to honor 

the wish that they wouldn't be alone.

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