The 13th Psalm

<p>The coffin is too small.</p><p>That's the first thing I notice.</p><p>Not the flowers. Not the people. Not the pastor reading</p><p>words like he's memorized pain and spit it out in clichés.</p><p>Just the box. Closed. Plain. Wood-grained like that makes it</p><p>softer.</p><p>It doesn't.</p><p>I sit in the front row knees locked hands folded like I care</p><p>what happens next. Mom hasn't blinked in twenty minutes.</p><p>Her mouth keeps twitching like she's trying to speak through</p><p>shock. Like if she says something-anything-it might bring</p><p>him back.</p><p>It won't.</p><p><br> </p>