They brought the same flowers to the funeral hall

They brought the same flowers to the funeral hall,

pale lilies in their formal sprawl.

Suddenly I was ten again, watching it all—

watching the box descend, watching myself feel small.

The lilies had that same white, that grace

of folding inward, of taking up space.

The dirt hit the wood. The familiar place

where I'd forgotten I remembered, face to face.

A child in the row ahead wore my brother's blue.

Not quite the same shade, but close enough to break through

the skin I'd built around this. I sat, I knew

I should not fall apart. So I counted the pew.

Someone's phone rang. A notification.

The world kept moving. My mother's station

was to sit. To endure. The occupation

of grief—this formal presentation.

The lilies smelled the same, and so I breathed it in—

that proof that nothing new comes from the bin

of memory, that every loss is kin

to the first one, again and again.