“travelling to funerals with my bride”

We drive beneath the low, unsure gray sky,  
Her fingers warm and laced in mine,  
The morning rain, a question, why—  
Like every mile we cross this line.

This journey isn’t the one we planned,  
Tux pressed flat, her dress subdued,  
No laughter on the radio band,  
Instead, a gentler, quiet mood.

We pass gold fields and sleepy towns  
Where memory tugs and ghosts appear,  
The world slows its spinning down  
To honor love and mark the year.

She squeezes once as tear meets cheek  
In roadside diners, silent pews  
Where old friends search the words they seek,  
And every face shapes some old news.

Yet somehow, here within this car,  
The engine hums, the wipers sing,  
My bride beside me—near and far—  
Gives strength to sorrow wandering.

For every ending we attend,  
Each goodbye threaded through the air,  
She stands with me, my dearest friend,  
And carries half the weight I bear.

So we travel roads both known and strange,  
Past rivers slow and trembling pine,  
We hold each other through the change—  
The living’s work, the heart’s design.

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