Until We Have Faces (2) Poem by John F. McCullagh

I told Ellen that I had to go,
an old friend was in need.
Barbra, my former fiancée,
sounded quite distraught indeed.

Grandma Coleman died that day,
Her Grandpa was fading fast.
He shook from late stage Parkinson's
and clearly would not last.

The funeral home on Fordham Road
was packed with kith and kin.
Indeed, until last summer,
I believed me one of them.

James Coleman Higgins greeted me
without any trace of rancor
He'd thought we got engaged too young.
He'd been right upon that score.

Barbra and her sisters
were seated on one side
James Higgins never had a son,
but as for daughters he had five.

His daughters' skin was sun kissed brown,
their mother hailed from Spain.
(I was glad to see his wife had come,
though they were long estranged.)

I knelt beside the casket there
and offered up a prayer
For this brave old Irish woman
who had suffered much, the dear..

Barbra and I went for a walk outside.
The night was warm and clear.
Upon the face she turned to me
was the dried river bed of tears.

Barbra was despondent with
silly talk of suicide.
Our romance had ended badly,
and now Grandma had died.

I assured her that another, better, love
would take the place of mine.
That she must embrace the future,
that sweetness comes with time..

As humans, we were both incomplete
that night on Fordham Road
Our faces not yet tight in place
to help us bear the load.

Some find their faces early-
Most, by middle life,
A tragic few fall into place
as their bodies say goodnight.

I saw her some years afterwards
Her face was smiling bright.
Her infant son was in her arms
I was glad things turned out right.

I sit here with my Barry's tea
That Grandma Coleman favored
and think how splendid the day has been
with evening still to be savored.