Real Tears for the Dead

Shortly after I’ve been put to bed, but not yet asleep,
I hear the ringing phone.
Mother appears in the doorway.
Grandmom just died.
Me, six, stunned awake, remember that yesterday, not understanding, I was
Taken to her bedside, Kiss her goodbye. Tell her you love her.
Now, not knowing exactly why or from where they come, sobs begin,
Shivery, shaking sobs. They surprise and confuse me.
Shadowy mother still in the doorway, watches, eyes narrowing. She leans into the door frame
Are those real tears? Are you sure they’re real?

Eighth period class just beginning, high school seniors, subject Religion.
Many girls hold tissues to their eyes, sniffle, cry softly,
A few weep openly. The young nun in a black and white
Habit is preparing to teach, wants to go on
With the lessons of the day, subject Religion. Though only
Thirty minutes prior, during seventh period the crackling PA voice told
The entire school that the handsome, young, Catholic
President was dead. Dead. Shot in the head, now dead.
Religion Sister looks at us with impatience and disdain.
Are those tears real? Are you sure they’re not the
Crocodile kind?

Flight 1289, first leg coming home after a four-day Philly funeral visit.
My younger brother dead – had been so sick for so long. Ten years I’d been
Watching for this end. Saying good-bye and I love you for ten
long years. Prepared for his death I thought, but not prepared for the sorrow,
the ache, the finality. Flooded with tears in seat 7B, I press American
Airlines miniature napkins into my face, blot eyes,
Push against nose, squash my mouth – secretive, silent, discreet – fellow
passengers seemingly obtuse. No one asking, Are those tears real?