years so long
		and now compressed
		of any air

I sit next to Dad, who sits stoically in the front of the chapel facing Mom's framed photograph. He quietly greets and converses with family and friends who pass by to shake his hand and extend condolences. I do the same, but feel an uncontrollable urge to breakdown when someone cries. I hug everyone tight, including my boss, Neal. I dare not look at her framed photo lest I start crying again so I focus elsewhere; at the Reverend reading the scriptures, and the pretty floral wreaths. Displaying sorrow is a rather personal & private matter. At this time, I will not look inside and breathe out this pain. It will only burden others. So I bottle it in a well. Cousin Francis offers me bottled water to hydrate and a box of Kleenex as comfort. Cousin Steven sings Amazing Grace and I listen intently and dare not side glance at Mom's photograph. It is Mom's favorite song.

	"how sweet the sound.
	I once was lost but now am found,
	was blind but now I see."
 

I get up to the podium and start to read my words of appreciation. I thank everyone. I relive Mom's life and recount funny stories of her reckless driving skills and speeding tickets in Makaha when she was 48 years old. Dad taught her to drive when she was 48 years old. Laughter lifts the seriousness in the chapel. I take a deep breath and begin to read a poem and haiku composed for Mom & me. For my poet friends, across oceans and seas, who kindly offered comfort in verse, I am deeply touched. The congregation quiets.

 
		no longer knotted inside
		tears loosen ...
		and fall
 

Conveniently, my reading glasses blur the audience. And tears blot clear vision of the words in my speech. I cannot see anyone in the audience, but I hear laughter every now and then, and my shaky voice calms itself. There is comfort in seeing only as far as an outstretched hand. I sit down and Dylan my 8 year-old son starts to play, Ode to Joy.

As he plays the piano, I calmly glance at Mom's photo. Her presence, her smile is no longer in a still photograph.

 
		separated perhaps ...
		but we are together
		in our imagination