The Mortuary Director's Children Poem by Patti Masterman

The mortuary director’s children
Loved to play by hiding in the caskets.
One day the four year old became ill;
The parents sat by the bed all night,
The doctor was called in early,
But it was for naught.
She must have caught a chill,
Was all he could say.

On the day of the funeral service,
The other children were restlessly curious,
Wondering how she kept still for so long;
She, who could never remain stationary,
The bane of Sunday school teachers and baby-sitters,
Eternally found flitting about, not quite airborne,
Like a one-winged butterfly.

Even at the graveside, they still felt certain
That at any moment the lid would flip open
And she would leap out at them, all giggly as she danced around,
For the sheer joy of keeping them searching for days.

If childhood starts to end at that moment
When you can no longer lose yourself in the game,
Then hide and seek would never be as much fun again.