by Sam Aureli
At my father’s funeral, the field
holds its breath, grasses leaning
toward the gathered crowd
as if to learn what death means.
I’m asked to speak—for the family,
for the man they loved like a river
loves its steady course.
What can I say of him?
The air presses with their waiting,
eyes bright with his name.
I could tell them of the storm
he carried, how his hands
taught me to flinch before I knew why.
The words rise, sharp,
and fall back into my throat.
Instead, I offer what they need:
his voice lifting hymns,
his faith a light through fog.
I say it, and the grass listens,
without judgment,
while my heart curls inward
like a leaf before frost.
An elderly woman approaches,
her face soft as worn cloth.
She says he was a blessing,
his kindness a seed
that bloomed in her days.
I nod, letting her words drift
like milkweed on the wind.
Look—there, in the field’s edge,
a sparrow stitches the silence,
its small wings saying—live.
I don’t forgive him, not yet,
but I let their love for him stand,
a stone I don’t need to carry.
::
Sam Aureli is a design and construction professional, originally from Italy, now calling the Boston area home. A first-generation college graduate, he’s spent decades immersed in concrete and steel. Poetry is what truly feeds his soul these days. With retirement still a decade away, Sam balances the grind of his day job with the refuge he finds in writing. His work has appeared in The Atlanta Review, West Trade Review, Underscore Magazine, Chestnut Review, Stanchion Magazine, and other literary journals.
Image: Achim Ruhnau
ID: A yellow leaf among green leaves.
Psaltery & Lyre 