My Mother’s Funeral
When my mother died
One part of her was celebrated...
The other part ...denied..
We gathered in a Church
That was not hers..
And there were garbled words from him...
Who never knew her
And I looked on ..who was this man in smocks of white
This Cleric of a Protestant Domain
Who spoke about my mother ?
Clasped in my Heathen hands
My Mata’s Solid Crucifix ...inscribed..
INRI Jesus of Nazareth King of Israel..
Upon my knees her Catholic Missal
Black and Gold ...pages rimmed in red.
IC XC
And inside there words...
.... Palm Sunday... 1930
My trembling Pagan self stared at the pages
With a drowning inward tear
The s mall cards so placed
To mark a thought.
Almost unbearable to read.
‘Out of the Land of Egypt’...
Dear Lord...teach me to be generous
To toil and not to seek for rest..
To Labour...and not expect reward.
How women learned their place.
In that church that day..
Part of my mother’s life was cleansed away
Like those white sheets she used to wash
And bleach.
Stations of the Cross.
The stranger spoke of marriage... one marriage.....
No mention that she had loved another man
And that she wed him ...love bursting in her heart.
All that had been recanted as an awkward past...
And by deduction then
As product of that union...
So was I.
On that church pew..I knew I was alone.
The voices near me echoed as a mocking side show
Of reality.
Mother...
Did you will it ?
Where your ashes lie
The gates are locked,.. the wind is chilled.. it’s hard to find an entrance
The sound of my own footsteps echo out in pain as if to say
Walk me away from here and never come this way again...
The words carved on that most cynical of stones
Annul...a life...
That cold granite slab .. has covered up the past.
Kristine Byrne 27th aug 2012