Poetry

Until We Meet Again
"Welcome Home"

After a long breath, 
my eyelids flutter open
to an unknown place. 
A place with colors
that I have never seen. 
A place where the giggles 
of children
flood my ears. 
A place where bodies lay
across a pillow of clouds. 
A place that has a white cottage house 
meticulously placed in a field of green. 
A wrap-around porch
where love seems to be found. 
A wooden rocking chair
that holds a being 
who makes my heart skip a beat
at the mere sight of them. 
I can’t tell if they are a man or woman —
I don’t think it matters. 
It doesn’t matter
because they look at me
as if they have met me before. 
As if they know every secret I hold. 
As if they have love to give me — 
a love I have never felt. 
They reach out their 
calloused yet comforting hands. 
I lace my fingers with theirs. 
Faces 
of people I don’t recognize, 
but my heart seems to know, 
and faces of those that have gone before me 
gather around this being. 
Butterflies begin to swarm me
and I can smell her scent 
as she hugs me. 
Bullfrogs begin jumping 
around my planted feet, 
and I can hear the Michigan game
from inside the house;
Jeremiah. 
A small child — 
one I can’t put a name to
but one that has my eyes —
latches their small fingers
tightly around my thigh. 
A sibling I never met. 
I hear the sound of a tractor
roaring closer and closer.
My eyes meet the ornery grin
of the man
that I didn’t say 
“I love you”
to enough. 
He walks towards me. 
I hear words
come from a voice
that once could not speak. 
Words, 
as clear as the 
piercing blue sky 
above me, 
that say, 
“I am free.”
These faces look at me
with love, 
comfort, 
and excitement 
because I am home.
These faces look at me 
and they say, 
“Welcome Home.”

If there is a heaven,
this is what I imagine it to be like. 
A place made just for me. 
Fields of allium, 
lavender, 
honesty,
and the Scottish primrose
engulf me. 
Because if 
heaven is real, 
it is a place
with fields full of
my favorite
color. 
Wooden cases 
of pages full of knowledge
and wonder
surround me. 
Because if 
heaven is real, 
it is full of
my favorite
books. 
If heaven is real, 
I imagine it to be a place
designed just for me. 
I imagine it to be a place
designed just for you. 
I imagine it to be a place
designed just for Jerry. 

After a long breath,
his eyelids flutter open 
to an unknown place.
A place with colors
that he has never seen.
A place where the giggles
of children 
flood his ears. 
A place where bodies lay
across a pillow of clouds. 
A place where working hands
look to be building
a white cottage house
that will one day be filled
with faces. 
Faces of those
that Jerry knows, 
that Jerry 
loves.  
There is a difference 
between the place
that I awaken to 
and the one 
that Jerry awakens to. 
I awaken to a sea
of people
who have been 
waiting. 
I awaken to a cottage
already built. 
Jerry awakens to fewer
people. 
Droplets instead of a sea. 
Jerry awakens to a cottage
that has yet to be built. 
A home that needs to be
created. 
But there is a similarity 
in these places. 
A wooden rocking chair
that holds a being; 
the same chair, 
and the same being. 
A being who makes
Jerry’s hands tremble 
at the sight of them. 
A being that seems to know
all of him, 
hold his secrets, 
and, love him in a way 
that he’s never been loved. 
What Jerry awakens to 
is different
than yours and mine
because this same being
reached for Jerry
long before
they will reach
for us. 
Sometimes
others are called long before 
to come and build their
homes. 
Jerry grasped 
the calloused and comforting hands
of this being. 
They pulled Jerry 
and asked him
the biggest favor of all —
to build his home. 
A home for himself, 
and soon for others. 
Jerry was still welcomed 
by the faces of those 
who came before him. 
But Jerry became 
the face
that would one day greet 
those that he left. 
Instead of being greeted by
his mother
or father, 
Jerry became 
the face
that would greet 
them. 
He would greet his brother, 
nieces and nephews, 
and classmates. 
Jerry became the face
that would look at those 
he loved, 
and say, 
“Welcome Home.”

If there is a heaven, 
this is what I imagine it to be like. 
A place made just for Jerry. 
A field
with schoolhouses 
that reeked of chalkboards. 
Because if heaven is real, 
it is a place 
that is full of memories
of his mother. 
Farm animals 
and stocks of corn 
that reach 
the heights of the 
piercing blue sky
surround him.
Because if heaven is real, 
it is a place full of memories 
of his father. 
A dirty garage
filled with an 
unimaginable number 
of Chevy Impalas. 
Because if heaven is real, 
it is full of
Jerry’s favorite car. 
If heaven is real, I imagine it to be a place 
designed just for Jerry. 
A place that reminds him 
of his earthly home. 
A place where when he took those
calloused hands, 
he didn’t feel scared, 
but he felt free. 
He felt at home. 

Welcome home, Jerry. 

---

Until We Meet Again
"St. Magnus Graveyard"

Shells
have always
scattered sandy beaches; 
hiding 
within the soft 
grain, 
only peeking 
to see those that
brush among 
their skin.
We have always 
walked
among them
with bare feet, 
looking with 
wondrous eyes
at the sight 
of their 
beauty. 
As if it’s 
a natural action
of our own hands, 
we have always
scooped
shells
with ridges, 
curves, 
and marks
into the safety 
of our palms.
We take them 
home
and decorate 
our countertops  
with their 
magnificence.
We forget
about the being
that these shells 
once housed
before 
becoming their simplicity —
a shell. 
Nothing has changed,  
as we continue 
to walk 
sandy beaches, 
and lift 
these delicate bodies
into the safety 
of ourselves; 
in awe 
of what they 
once were
and what they 
are now 
for an eternity — 
a shell. 

Bodies 
of people 
have always 
scattered graveyards; 
hiding 
within the softness 
of the earth, 
only peeking 
to see those that
brush among
their granite skin. 
We have always 
walked 
among them
with flowers 
in our hands, 
looking with
grieving eyes
at the sight
of their 
absence. 
As if it’s 
a natural action
of our own hands, 
we have always
scooped
bodies 
with ridges, 
curves, 
and marks
into the safety 
of our palms.
We take them
to a place
and decorate
their faces
with powder, 
their bare bodies 
with pearls
and patterned ties, 
and then we decorate 
graveyards
with symbols
of their 
magnificence. 
Memories fade, 
and we forget
about the being
that these bodies 
once housed
before 
becoming their simplicity —
a body; 
a shell.  
Nothing has changed,  
as we continue 
to walk
within graveyards, 
and lift 
these delicate bodies
into the safety 
of ourselves; 
in awe 
of what they 
once were
and what they 
are now 
for an eternity — 
a body; 
a shell. 

A shell
or a body, 
a sandy beach
or a graveyard —
I’m not sure it matters
as this 
is a testament 
of 
ashes to ashes, 
and dust to dust. 
Shells
washed of poking sand, 
and their bodies used
as their own headstones —
the decoration
of their own life. 
Bodies 
washed of the hurt 
of their lifetime 
but clothed 
in the love of it. 
Placed within 
a wooden shell, 
and a rock of stone 
etched 
with their 
identity 
and placed 
as the marker 
of their eternal home. 

We are shells
and we are bodies.
We are 
ashes to ashes, 
and dust to dust.
They were shells
and they were bodies
of love, 
orneriness, 
and dreams.
They were 
ashes to ashes,
and now 
dust to dust. 

Across the seas, 
it is the same; 
ashes to ashes,
dust to dust, 
shells and bodies 
scooped into the safety 
of palms, 
cleansed,
and laid to rest; 
headstones made 
of their own shell
of a body, 
or made of rocks 
of stone, 
etched with their 
identity 
and given their 
eternal home. 
It is the same
across 
lifetimes 
and across
worlds. 

And so,
I laid them 
to rest
across the seas. 
I laid them 
to rest 
in the 
St. Magnus Cathedral Graveyard. 
I laid them 
to rest 
with a rock
painted
with their 
identity, 
and the dates
they left
off to search
for their eternal 
home. 
I laid them 
to rest 
below 
a woman
named Margaret, 
and a man 
named John, 
in hopes 
that she will 
care for them 
like a mother, 
and he will treat them 
like his own sons. 

Jerry, 
Jeremiah, 
and Jamison, 
may you rest
across the seas 
in this graveyard. 
May you rest
across the world, 
wherever your shells
and your bodies 
may take you. 
Ashes to ashes, 
dust to dust.

---

"What is something that people don't usually view as beautiful or of great value, but you personally do?" This was a prompt given in my freshman Advanced Expository Writing class. The following piece reflects the beauty that I have found that not many others notice; the beauty of my father's profession. This poem has been published in the June 2022 Kansas Funeral Director's Association Magazine.


Beautiful Losses
by Cleo Feltner

I grew up in a home where Death was no surprise.
It was never morbid and it was nothing new.

I grew up in a home where Death was my father’s life. 

I watched as my father left at any time of day.
It never mattered if it was 2 p.m. on a Sunday
or 3 a.m. on a Tuesday morning; 
Death does not wait. 

I watched as my father missed holidays
and family members wondered why he was absent;
Death is not considerate. 

I watched as my father couldn’t even move me into my dorm room,
unable to be present even in the small things; 
Death has no compassion. 

I watched as my father worked hours into the night,
tired because he already worked too many hours that day,
and now too many tomorrow; 
Death does not allow rest. 

I watched as my father had to bury his own father, his own mother,
his own nephew, his own friends, children, and his entire community;
Death does not care who you are. 

My father is a funeral director.
A mortician.
His life is Death. 

And although what my father does can be absolutely god-awful,
and it can be morbid, 
it can be so beautiful.

It is beautiful
because unlike Death, 
my father waits.
He is patient. 

Unlike Death, 
my father is considerate. 
He provides careful thought towards the one you love. 

Unlike Death, 
my father is compassionate. 
He sympathizes with your grief. 

Unlike Death, 
my father allows rest.
He steals your worries as his own. 

Unlike Death, 
my father cares who you are. 
He makes you feel seen
even when you are buried beneath your grief. 

His life is Death, 
but he makes it absolutely beautiful.