Narrative and Poem -- Stumble. Stop.

Growing up in a funeral home isn’t scary. I've only known life with dead people. I always look at them, the dead. They're the temporary guests in our house, guests I’ve never met before, but I am completely comfortable around them — and they seem to enjoy my entertainment. I kind of like them in a way; I don’t know anything about their lives — whether they were nice or mean or crazy. They're just our temporary guests who have callers coming and going and whispering and crying.

© Stumple. Stop.

Come and go, come and go.

Tedious; it’s always the same.

Come, go, come, go.

See that colorful, camphor window?

No, you can’t see in; I can’t see out.

Footfalls; step, step, step.

Voices whispering

Sounding like hissing snakes;

Tears and sniffles and

Step, step, come and go.

Why have you come?

Not for the wedding;

You’re too late.

Oh, for the funeral;

You know he lost his connection?

Yes, and he lost his heart;

He lost his mind.

He lost his head.

Someone said, “He would

Not have done it, otherwise.”

Whispers, footfalls, step, step, step.

Come and go, come and go.

Mimi Wolske

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