A Summer Day
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A ukulele band strums by the grave of an old woman I never knew. I lead the prayers, alb flapping, helping to lay the body to rest, and as the family lingers, quietly walk away, down the hill to another grave I remember from before.
It was winter then, and the oak was bare, and the one we buried was a boy. I keep thinking he’ll be cold, the father said. He’ll need his coat.
But it’s summer now, and the farmers are haying in the yellow fields. The dust of the harvest is softening the air. And as I stand at the marker, looking out, a feeling starts to come over me, a kind of peace, almost like the peace I prayed for up the hill, the peace of God,which surpasses all understanding. It spreads through my body like warmth.
I know. I’m just saying what happened. I’m just saying that it surprised me, too. The farmers, and the yellow fields, and the warm, summer wind. The ukulele band, strumming still. [End Page 241]
Chris Anderson is a Professor of English at Oregon State University and author of a number of books, including a book of poems. A new book of poems, The Next Thing Always Belongs, is tentatively scheduled to be published next year. He is also a Catholic deacon.
