Breakfast at the cemetery

Sandwiched between 

a country road and fields of corn and soy

I eat breakfast with my mother.

We have a one-sided conversation, 

I’ll admit that much. 

Crying a little, I let small bugs land on my outstretched legs. 

 

Her grave looks so small, hidden amongst the others,

diminutive beneath the nearby honey locust tree

tiny and unassuming, really

both things she certainly never was while she lived.

Kissing her simple stone goodbye, 

I realize 

months and months will go by 

before I

come back to this small, simple site.