By Kate Rushin 

For thirty miles
The string of cars
In my grandmother’s funeral procession
Laces painfully through
The red-lighted intersections

It’s some kind of a miracle
No trucks ram the hearse
No sirens scream
No one cuts us off

Even in the neighborhoods
Like the ones she worked days
For decades
With no insurance

They pause
They take note
They wonder

They all make way
For the gal from Schley County, Georgia
Finally they make way for her to pass

She saved the money
Though it wasn’t enough
She chose the undertaker and the plot
Close to her girl Ruth

She could go
She said
Three days without eating
And she did

What could we do
But step aside
We step aside
We make way for her to pass

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