Face downcast, hands clamped, eyes grieving;
Sitting, back straight on the stiff, wooden pew;
I gazed at the marble box of ashes on the altar
Pondering how my grandfather could be in there.
I stared at the white, ornate cross dangling above the box,
Hoping for my grandfather’s salvation;
I closed my eyes and prayed, with everyone else
And the image of him nestled in heaven eased my woe.
As I grow older, reason and skepticism seep into my mind
While innocence and faith are sieved from my blood;
I’m aware his ashes are now nothing but lifeless specs of dirt
In the cold ground; but my family suspects he lives on,
And the fallacy ameliorates their grief
But steels their veil of naiveté – as it once did for me.