Like limousines
In funeral procession.
Each long and dark,
Appearing the same.
But, riding in each one,
A different memory.
Some familiar and often seen.
Some seen but once,
Then never again.
Like family gathered
To say good-bye,
Some better known than others,
But all present out of love.
They passed one after another,
Carrying their flowers
For his resting place.
Each pausing briefly
To be certain
I took notice.
Then, in tears,
Each departed—
Leaving a flower.
To dry, but remain.
To be treasured
As its color fades.
And kept
Forever.
Joseph Weilenbeck 2001
Written in 2001, remembering the night I sat with my father while he gently passed away.
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