No tears would be shed,
we promised each other.

Your mother was buried wearing
a light pink dress. The pastor
mumbled a few verses procedurally.
Everyone was dressed in black,
but we wore yellow, because we owed
your mother that.

And we sang a song, dressed like that, for
everyone. A gentle September rain fell then.
Black umbrellas rose, like from a movie
scene, as we wrenched yellow plastic raincoats
out of our pockets awkwardly.

"Wear yellow at my funeral. I
just can't stand all the sadness.
And don't cry."
Oh, we tried our best,
but we ended up crying nine times
on that ninth September morning.