Happy Passings

in the South

we always say someone has passed

it’s a much kinder phrase than death

as a child I always imagined

the deceased drifting by

passing us as a parade float might

we could stand and watch

them smile and wave

on their way out of our everyday world

that’s why we were dressed up

because it was a party and afterwards 

people brought cake to the house

my grandmother passed

and in time my parents too

took that Rose Parade journey

though by that time I no longer expected

passing to be an occasion of joy

even if we do wrap it in flowers

the pageantry of death is grim

no bright streamers or balloons,

no raucous music with drums

we dress somberly

we speak softly as if we are trying

to keep the secret of their death from them

most often it is raining

though I have no idea

why that should be true

I rather hope the parade starts on the other side

that someone is as happy 

to see them arrive

as we are sad to see them go

that they get their brass band

and the chance to ride 

in the crepe paper carriage

my childhood fantasy

never followed the procession

farther than my own field of vision

the march was all about me waving goodbye

so where the passing ended up

was a just great mystery

it still is