The Lost Country

Fall 2014 • Vol. 3, No. 1

issn 2326-5310 (online)

For Kyndall

By Tyler Morrison

This work was published in the Fall 2014 issue of The Lost Country. You may purchase a copy of this issue from us or, if you prefer, from Amazon.

It rained that day; of course it rained that day.
The clouds were dark, the dripping faces pale,
Umbrellas black as suits and ties and dresses.

Drained and gray, I struggled, strained to say
Some sweet remark. But words of comfort fail.
All felt the lack. No sun would gild her tresses.

A preacher spoke; he may have quoted Psalms.
I can’t recall. But then, by God, he smiled!
Jesus, Heaven, Joy… This is our belief?

I sob and choke, dig fingers into palms.
I mustn’t bawl. But, God, she was a child!
These sermons cloy. Where is all your grief?

Her brother sees; concern is in his eyes.
The water bestirs, compounds, hides not our tears.
He asks, “Are you okay?” Her brother. Okay?

A long disease–and then, at last, she dies:
A daughter; a sister; a friend of countless years.
It rained that day. Of course it rained that day.