He got sick in the night

By noon he was dead.

Agnes walked out of the hut.

She wailed her grief

over the Grumenti valley

to call her neighbors,

to follow a custom deep in her tribe,

to help the children cry.

Laurenti and Agnes were baptized,

married in Serengeti Parish.

They would walk miles, hours

in the burning sun to Mass,

to greet, to be there for God.

August 1 Agnes has harvested

the cotton, the milo, the beans.

The final Eucharist.

The end — a beginning

Agnes and the children are moving.

We’ll pack first chickens

We make a stick cage and

we chase the chickens thru the milo

around the house, over the grave

under the pickup, and we laughed.

Cotton?  We bundle up the leftovers,

the colored stuff, the future mattress

up on the cab.

The dog?  Paulo is giving his dog to a

neighbor, a friend, his buddy.

We pack everything, even the table.

So we lower the end gate,

spread the altar cloth

prepare ourselves and pray

with heart.

Agnes and the children and 1

are the only Catholics,

but everyone enjoys blessing the grave

blessing each child, imposing hands

on the treasures, the truck, the

children.

 

Singing in the cool morning air.

We have a musical word in Swahili,

“kumsindikiza "

It means "to take a friend

down the road a bit."

And we prayed Laurenti

down the road a bit,

to heaven, to new life.

God is with you, Laurenti.

The sky was blue blue above

the morning sun,

orange with Serengeti dust

The valley far off, like heaven.

The God of Life and Death,

the Creator of Light and Dark, the

Infinite Invisible was pleased

to take him by the hand.

The Mass is ended.

Let’s do
it. Let’s get on with life.