I often ponder the mortician's plight.
Bathe, suture, reconstruct my children's' bodies.
Dress her in pink ballet shoes and tutu,
he in baseball uniform, trophy and glove by his side.

This year, the Yahrzeit is before Thanksgiving.
I'll visit the cemetery, recite the proper prayers,
present plaques, donate funds in their memories,
inscribe a communiqui to the community:
I have survived.
I am healed.

Concealed in my closet, I weep daily.
I have been ordained the death expert.
No school, books, diplomas or degrees were required.
Only test after test after test.

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