I love hearing about cultures
that tend the graves of their beloved dead,
gathering there to feast and picnic
on the day of remembering,
telling stories with tears and laughter,
leaving small stones and gifts on the graves,
drinks of water, messages that say:
you are dearly loved and remembered.
In our culture, we are uptight about death,
pretend it doesn't exist,
until it arrives at our door.
We stand, stoic, at funerals,
holding back tears
to be shed privately, later.
At First Nations funerals,
there is open mourning,
And there is honouring:
the young brave in his casket,
an eagle feather in his hair,
and all the young men of his tribe
squatting, knees bent,
walking this way up the aisle,
circling his casket,
and back down.
The pain must have been immense,
but was ignored,
in the honouring of their brother.
I like their ways best.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: the Day of the Dead