The Old Ones Know

The old ones know what to do.

They sit in stately silence at the side of a hospital bed,
tissues stuffed into sweater sleeves,
prayers whispered through chapsticked lips,
a roll of lifesavers within reach at the bottom of a worn purse.

In the funeral homes they take their places,
second row from the coffin,
black lace shawls,
hands full of rosary beads,
leading the novenas,
guiding those who have forgotten their catechism
and are not familiar with death.

Graveside, they stand in a row like Moai
along the shores of Easter Island,
staring west across the ocean,
knowing this place will be their fate one day
and wondering who will gather for them, as they do now.

At the mercy meal,
they arrive before the others with trays of food,
covered in glimmering foil.
They set it between the grieving and their grief,
knowing the smells and their kitchen chatter
will keep the young tethered to them,
teaching what must be done when it is their time.