It’s after the funeral
When everyone is sitting around
Drinking burned, stale coffee
With powdered creamer
Floating in lumps on the top
And eating sandwiches
And lumpy potato salad
In the church basement
On metal folding chairs
That squeak when you sit down
It’s here
That the stories
Begin to unfurl
One by one
Each one building on the last
Each a little funnier
More brazen
Than the last
And in the details of the stories
You come alive again
If just for the afternoon
But you are
Fully here
Sitting on the squeaky chairs
Among us