by Bob Hoffman
Great Aunt Edna asked for water,
she who drank only coffee,
never learned to swim,
and was so afraid
of baptism by immersion
that she joined the Mennonites
and got sprinkled.
Granddad reminded my father
to get the potatoes
into the ground
and told my uncles
to shut the henhouse door
before bedtime.
Sis wanted a backrub
and asked for an umbrella,
and we wondered if she predicted
the thunderstorm
that arrived
later that evening,
the one with rain
that tasted of salt.
Grandma said to open
the bedroom window
said she just wanted to hear
the mourning doves
once more.
College roommate Dave,
the wrestler,
whispered something
I couldn’t hear
and kissed my hand.
And Aunt Mabel,
she with the big arms
and the great backhand
cried 15-love.
Uncle Jack put his hand to his chest
and said better call doc,
and cousin Danny belched
and said excuse me,
and then he was.
Not a one of them said
anything very profound,
and in the eulogies,
not even Aunt Betty,
she with the PhD in english
was quoted,
My cousin Nick
who studied philosophy
theology, accounting, and plumbing
and in that order
says this is typical,
says that when a person is near the end
that you are letting go of things,
that you are getting used
to the idea that the father
in heaven has got your soul,
that the son has your heart,
that the holy ghost has your spirit.
And one more thing Nick says
he says that the cat----
the cat has
got your
tongue.
Bio: Bob Hoffman is an English major turned registered nurse living in Washington DC. He has had poetry previously published in the publications, Sotto Voce, Rejoice, and SHUN.
