The Funeral

We follow, slowly, in a line, behind the black cars,
Each with our own thoughts and private memories
of the coffin's occupant. How long do the searing scars
of cruel death take to heal? How can my sister fit
into that box? So large in my life, so very dear.
I dread each mounting moment that brings me near
to the crematorium and that final swish of curtain.
I can not bear to think, I am so very uncertain
of the future, without her presence in my world.
That listening skill, hers alone, that gave reassurance
to me so many times. I'd feel content, like a cat curled
on a safe lap, after one of our telephone conversations.
The service beautiful and sad, celebratory but grim.
The words, did I say them to her when she was alive?
I hope I did. We sing with lump in throat, her chosen hymn,
Then the awful journey back without her. We all strive
to keep control. We chat, we joke, we speak, we choke
on our memories. I feel pangs of guilt, how could I joke
at my sister's funeral? Then remembering Betty's sense of fun
I feel some peace, not much, but perhaps the healing has begun!