Sotero Marfori

The rusty gate had finally closed

On the quiet figure of a dignified, wrinkled man

The hawk-shaped lines of the nose

The gentle glaze of the eyes

The black cropped hair, standing like soldiers on his head

He was a quiet, stuttering presence

Weighted by the world,

Forced unto a wheelchair

But he was a presence that deserved attention

The youth can run all they want on healthy bodies undeserving

But they did not have his healthy mind

His stern gaze

His courageous spirit

His loving touch

His protective stance, daring, waiting

His pride

The wind can blow as loud as it desires,

Whipping somber faces, mourning eyes

The sun can blaze in greatness as a regal king

Soaking us in sweat, withering

But we persisted carrying the last trophy of his presence

And marched on

As the hushed requiem swelled

Like ants scurrying over hills of dirt,

We, as children, scampered over graves, scratching our knees on the rough cement

I stood on an unknown relative’s tomb, raising myself so that I could look down

And there he was,

Buried.

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(A/N: He was my grandfather