Spirit

They wag heads. “So sad.” Pinch away tears. “Too young. Was cancer that took her.”

They kneel beside my shell, then slump back to metal folding chairs, heads bowed.

I stand unseen on gaudy, tear-soaked carpeting then float from this place of too many flowers. I am the sky. The wind. A whisper like soft breath on shoulders. That streaming light in the night.

They lumber through nine to five. See the world as asphalt and power lines. Hold their cheeks at the thought of me.

If only they knew, I flutter at their backs as they fold over my grave.