Three Short Shouts of Farewell

Day Thirty of Thirty Days of Writing

Shawn McDaniel
Aug 24, 2017 · 4 min read
Photo taken by Shawn McDaniel

1. Near the Muny

Sunlight darted at the hint of touch

Followed a trail of dead, rippling circles on the surface

Deep rabbit holes and two herons perched at a standoff

Recorded her every movement

The waters breathed with the creek and circled the body

Aflame from the low sun’s long beaks

But the creek was busy with talons and dipped behind tall trees

A young man meandered, eyeing the other, pruning his feathers

Recording her every movement

Writhing with life and rancid scents, wriggling sperm tails which

Leapt onto boulders across the creek, waned in tall trees

Narrowly avoiding where the forest parted

Spread shadows out like long sheets.

Dancing beside a stone, a young woman with dark feathers

Muck between her talons, nibbling at

a cell phone attached to a tripod

Recording her every movement

Circled the body, breathed into water

Narrowly avoiding deep rabbit holes, whipping cattails

along the bank, darting at the hint of touch

Dark hair spread shadows out like long sheets

Sunlight waned in the forest, dipped behind tall trees

The creek was busy with writhing life where the forest parted

the low sun’s hue cast aflame the vacant trail of the dead

and recorded her every movement

Photo taken by Shawn McDaniel

2. Wafting in through the open window

A jackhammer is driving into my brain

Can’t you hear the heavy metal tearing apart the asphalt

Can’t you see the man’s arms vibrating as he bears down

into Wyoming Street bright in the morning?

What will he find once the surface has been pulverized?

Standing within a perimeter of orange cones

He’s paid to dig not to keep, once his job is done

he will leave and I will be left with a gaping hole

right outside my front door, a pulsing head right inside

my window. Good luck jackhammer man, rest your

sun eaten quivering arms. I hope you have earplugs in.

3. Larenuf

last night a procession

the beat of drums

the slow groan of a saxophone

a group adorned all in white

neatly pressed pants shirts and dresses

flooding down the steps of the church

two men holding a sheer white balloon aloft

and dangling down like a basket was a flaming canticle

which filled the sheer white balloon and I was waiting for them

to let go, to let the balloon free but they did not, they just held it

angling it just so to keep the flame from burning up the sheer white edges

a police cruiser stopped by to investigate but I did not see their interaction

When I returned they still held the balloon high, they still beat the drums and hummed and sang and the saxophone still wailed and moaned. I thought this must be a wedding, or else — I stopped a woman in a patterned red dress and cap.

“Excuse me, do you know what this celebration is for?”

“Our dear friend passed away, this is her funeral. She was a wonderful artist. As you can see, there are people of every color here to remember her, she has impacted so many in such a profound way, through painting, music, and dancing, through her active role in the community, even the drummers here are from bands afar touched by her. This is a celebration of life.”

The flame beneath the white balloon diminished and burned out. The men lowered the canticle to the sidewalk and emptied out the embers to extinguished them completely. Then the procession began to disperse. I walked through the crowd, straining for a glimpse of conversation, an overheard word, a strained smile. I walked through the people and arrived at the sleek black hearse parked in the alleyways, a yellow light pulsing atop like a beacon to slow down, to pay attention… it reminds me now of the yellow my grandmother saw blazing on her hospital wall during our most recent visit.

I imagined the many funerals I’ve been to in my life, each in a deep state of mourning, wrapped in black scowls and grimaces, soaked in tears and holy water. It was hard to feel anything but sorrow for those ripped away so early in life; for myself left behind in the wake of their absence. I’ve been to so many it has become routine rather than ritual. Standing before dead bodies has caused me to disassociate what is laying before me from what was once flowing with life. Here is merely a shell pumped with preservatives, painted up to be passable to the eyes of viewers before being injected into the earth and buried by dirt and labeled by a heavy stone in an act of finality.

The dispersing procession was chatty and lighthearted. Children chased one another between the legs of their elders, and a couple of drummers still beat the skin to keep the party lively. Their drums were like works of art, ornamental limbs branching out from the sides with thin dyed clothes waving from them like flags. No one seemed ready to end the celebration.


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