The Crossover

Where Do We Go from Here?

There are no coaches

at funerals. No practice

to get ready. No warm-up.

There is no last-second shot, and

we all wear its cruel

midnight uniform, starless

and unfriendly.

I am unprepared

for death.

This is a game

I cannot play.

It has no rules,

no referees.

You cannot win.

I listen

to my father’s teammates

tell funny stories

about love

and basketball.

I hear the choir’s comfort songs.

They almost drown out Mom’s sobs.

She will not look in the coffin.

That is not my husband, she says.

Dad is gone,

like the end of a good song.

What remains is bone

and muscle and cold skin.

I grab Mom’s right hand.

JB grabs her left.

The preacher says,

A great father, son, and

husband has crossed

over. Amen.

Outside, a long charcoal limo

pulls up to the curb

to take us

back.

If only.