The Formal Goodbye

The dress wasn't mine.

I borrowed it from someone

who had smaller bones.

I sat in the front row and it hung on me

like I was wearing a costume of grief.

The priest said things that weren't quite true.

He said she loved gardening.

She hated dirt under her fingernails.

He said she was patient.

Everyone in the room knew better.

But no one corrected him.

We just sat there,

letting the story get rewritten

while she wasn't there to argue.

The urn was wrapped in cream-colored cloth.

So light. Impossibly light.

I held it for a moment after,

and I thought: this can't be right,

nothing this important should weigh this little.

Afterward, people ate small sandwiches

and talked too loud,

the way people do when they're uncomfortable

and trying not to show it.

I left with the taste of mayo

still on my tongue.