On the Death of a Friend

It was said you were the Queen of your family. Before you
died, you peeled off that last layer of clothing to stand
naked . . . vulnerable . . . before those you loved.
Unaccustomed to nakedness, unable to see beauty in that form, they turned away, preferring to see you
as you had always been. Properly clothed.

I wanted to shout, "She wears no clothes! She has removed
her clothes! See her beauty!" But my voice was silent and the
words became tears spilling down my cheeks, unheard.

An elephant came to church the day we gathered
to remember you. I first glimpsed her standing with your
family as I waited in the viewing line. In the casket, you
appeared a shadow of the daughter and sister your family knew and loved. But my eyes were drawn to the elephant. She was holding a portrait of you, as you stood, unclothed, radiant in truth and beauty. The picture glowed, inviting everyone to
a new way of seeing.

The elephant accompanied you into the sanctuary, looming large atop the closed casket. She sat quietly, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She overpowered everything—the Scripture, the words of comfort, the eulogies. Only when your friend sang a magnificent rendition of "It is well with my soul" did the elephant seem to fade. But she was there,
all day, insistently present.

And for those who had eyes to see, and ears to hear, the beauty of your life echoed throughout the sound of the silence.

—Marilyn Kennel, Mount Joy, Pennsylvania, enjoys observing, reflecting, and writing about the moments of her days. Currently, she absorbs the sights, sounds, and smells of farm life working full-time as an embryo transfer technician in her husband’s veterinary practice.

A Dad Is a Dad Is a Dad?
The farmer is a cheery sort.
He likes to talk
a lot
and the laughter that punctuates his words
grates after awhile.

“Stay in the barn,” he tells his young son.
“I want to go out.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“But why?”
“Because I said so and that’s reason enough.”

I swallow hard.
Is it ’55 or ’05?
Some things seem never to change
This dad, my dad, all dads?
—Marilyn Kennel