Her service was on Tuesday – right before ash Wednesday.
The altar was draped in purple such as tradition called.
the incense burned the atmosphere
her favorite color that we would wear.
and if an artist would paint this assembly he would hardly stroke his brush.
The bittersweet doxology was swallowed.
the color purple on my mind.
Good memories were as such the people that attended
The desperation of a few and old friends that sat and spoke for lunch.
~
Sweet fruit covered in bitter chocolate
So much I tried to understand
I always preferred the sweeter kind but took what was placed in my hand.
~
We finished our food and wine later that evening
bitter, short, and sweet was the time.
We sat in her painted room together
Yet how quickly we replaced the belongings and moved the furniture around.
The memory left violet paint on the wall.
~
We passed around old trinkets
Old pictures and her paintings that were on the colored wall.
no proof of anger or disdain
just purple
in the boxes
that were sitting on the floor.
~
Ironic was this color
that surrounded her each day
Even with her sight she would never see any happiness it gave. . . .
~
or the purple shirt I wore
On her funeral that day.
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