Mourning Al Yeske at Wethersfield Village Cemetery During a Pandemic By Laura Desmarais
Through my windshield, I watch the silver casket cross to its final rest, lofted on the sad, strong shoulders of the son and nephews. Along the I-91 horizon, trucks process in whispering prayer. Sun streams through vaulted, bare branches. Dead ahead, the priest’s masked words weave over and under threads of wind, accompanied by the gentle gestures of his gloved hands. The widow stands as erect and socially distant as her abandoned walker. From the parking lot, I offer the sign of a heart then drive home alone.
