Driving along Highway 36 this morning, I
pass fresh flowers stemming from a plastic-
bag vase filled with water and tied to a sign.
I think I finally know why people do this
Honoring. The last place where you know
your lover or child or father was alive, must
become sacred ground.
We can all get trapped in a space. We stay
too long and we get stuck and then we think
we need permission before we can move on.
Maybe a friend comes to us one morning
with dried flowers embedded in a wreath
of Styrofoam and he hangs it around
our neck and tells us it is okay to cross over.
Maybe our spirit hovers in a room for years
and years. We can’t even remember where
we were going. And some sensitive soul is
tired of being weighed down by our pain and
she burns a smudge of sage in a stone bowl,
then uses a feather to urge us on to the next
world that will greet us with open arms, but
only when we finally let go.