Gerold

I didn't know him. Gerald—

or Gerold, as the program read.

One vowel off. Nobody fixed it.

The eulogy went ahead.

His daughter spoke about the garden,

the side yard, tomatoes. The Buick

he refused to sell. I sat in back

and let my eyes go to the thick

stack of type on the program.

The O. The wrong O in his name,

set in a tasteful serif font.

Three hundred people. The same

pastor who said Gerald right

each time he said it. I held the page,

folded once across his name

by accident. I couldn't engage

with the fold, just sat with it.

The organ played something I knew

but couldn't name completely.

The program in my hands. The pew

hard underneath. Gerold

in the crease. I left it on the seat.

Couldn't keep it, couldn't throw it

in the bin. I walked to the street.

The afternoon going somewhere else.

Gerold. The O. The fold.