He was 93 years old and lived long and well
his dark leather-like skin formed creases that flowed across his face
like a maze
at the sides of his gently closed eyes, along the corners of his smooth lips
and in every empty space in between—
the creases overflow like the life he lived—
a life that was 93 years long.
As the broken hearted son shrivels to the earth and weeps
and the casket is slowly lowered beneath the ground,
I fold my hands across my womb
and wrap my fingers around a life that is only days old—
somewhere between a blastocyst and an embryo
I am carrying the absolute beginning of life.
And as this father, grandfather, and great grandfather
disappears beneath the crumbled soil
I marvel at the wonder of life’s journey.