Anna Cates
No Condolences
Oppressive July heat. Heavy-laden footfalls pass over the gravel, stones grinding against stones like gnashing teeth, shadow following shadow out and away from the old church, oddly scented of history, surrounded by lonely country. There, at the funeral, I’d uttered my mother’s favorite psalm, Psalm 91, leaving my younger brother quiet on the pew, the fond remembrances to extended family, and the callous jokes to old friends.
so fleeting
“Quakers were always so good to me,” my mother had said. And when it was time to relinquish life, it seems to me, they let her know.
She was elderly, in pain, kidneys failing, back candy-cane bent, posture wrecked by a diet void of essential minerals too dangerous for her to eat. But when she announced that, indeed, she was headed for hospice, I only imagined additional slow decline. Her mind was still crisp. Her death seemed sudden.
the lily's bloom
After the funeral service, an old man I didn’t know approached me. “I loved your mother when she was younger, and I wanted to marry her…” he told me, gaining my interest, but then losing me with, “…you have a lot of living up to do.”
Since then, I have learned the merit of “private services.”
year of the ox
About the Author
Dr. Anna Cates teaches writing, literature, and education online and has published a variety of books (poetry, fiction, and drama through Cyberwit, Prolific Press, Red Moon Press, and wipfandstock.com. Her short form poetry collection, Love in the Time of Covid, won an Illumination Book Award. She resides in Wilmington, Ohio with her two beautiful kitties.