Black Umbrellas

My abiding memory

will be of black umbrellas

and stormwater rilling

into her open grave.

The cemetery on the hill;

only a small gathering

of mourners weep.

Aunt is beautifully stoic,

crushing my hand.

We process up the hill,

past innumerable headstones

blurred by the rain.

I shake hands with the Priest.

I am crying. In the chapel driveway,

the door of a black limousine

is open. I get in.

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