the death of a family member

the sign on the deli door,
hand written in magic marker,
the same pen that writes down
large or small,
mushrooms or olives,
says that the store will be
closed on Monday due to the death
of a family member.
a bell jingles when you push
the glass door open.
you place your order at the counter
and look around to see
who might be missing.
the father and son, are there,
heavy in their white aprons,
stained with red sauce
the mother, in the back
with the salads, adjusting her
black wig,
a cousin at the oven,
a sister on the tables.
there is a quietness as
money changes hands. no
music plays. no small talk.
you leave with a blessing in
some strange way.
this hot meal being part
of the sorrow,
part of the holy ground
that sorrow is.