A visitation starts with a sideways
glance into the rear view mirror,
the parking lot where pre-teens
have run away from the unfamiliar
body of their grandpa to play in the gravel,
the awkward shuffle past the statue
of St. Thomas Moore to the chapel
where where your cousin’s wife hugs,

hugs every visitor with the certainty 
of heaven…a place where you’ll
see everyone,

everyone that’s gone before. 

You stand with aging friends
wondering
who’ll be next