Washing the Stones

MAUDE MEEHAN

Armed with buckets 
and small brushes, two grandsons
four and six, trudge beside me
to the family plot. Their faces serious, 
pleased to be included in this ritual, 
the washing of the stones.  

Scrubbing at leaf-gummed 
residue of winter, we speak of the 
grandfather they dimly recollect. 
And then because they know 
all creatures die when they are old, 
ask where my stone will be, 
assure me earnestly that they 
will clean mine too.     We know how, 
the youngest says, and    Look, 
we’re really good at it. 
Questions follow about burial 
and death, but before long, 
their interest turns to small boy 
talk, their treble voices 
livening this resting place. 

Above the site a canopy of trees 
displays tight buds, soon to unfurl
just as these sturdy blood-kin boys 
are opening,     as side by side 
with care we wash the stones.

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