[John Riley]

A Slight Death

The little street was called Sycamore although
it was lined with old oaks, except for one tree at the end
of the street I couldn't name. I was sure my wife
knew what type of tree it was but I didn't ask her.
She sat in the passenger seat, looking for a church
where a few cars would be parked, a few cars
and a few people willing to go into the church.
I drove past an old building that may have once been a store
or even a small factory, but now it had been turned into a place
where people gathered to send away souls no one
believed were there. I had to turn around
in the driveway of a house newer than the others,
one that didn’t fit the neighborhood, a house
too fresh to say goodbye to, and drive back
to the small church where a few silent people waited
to hear a short sermon made faint by a slight grief.