The sunglasses

my cousin wears to his brother's funeral

almost make me laugh.

They remind me of the sunglasses

Tom Cruise wears in his films,

the kind worn

to make yourself look cool,

not the kind worn

to mask mourning.

The church's candles

send shifting golden hues

gently across their dark surface.

I try to catch a glimpse around the sides of the frames,

justifying my glances

with the excuse

I had forgotten the color of my cousin's eyes.

I stare a while longer,

as I'm only really looking

to see if his green eyes

are tinted around

with red,

the color that always seems to go along with death.

I shake the thought free from my mind,

the possibility of seeing how pain

paints my cousin's eyes

becomes very real

and suddenly

I'm relieved he wears the sunglasses

indoors.

It makes me wish

my father had worn them

when I had watched his eyes leak

for the first time

only days before.

Just as I begin to wonder

if I should also be wearing a pair,

my cousin turns in my direction and

I wish I hadn't been staring,

for the sunglasses have

become the hands of his dead brother,

laced together delicately

around his eyes

trying desperately

to catch whatever falls from them,

staining his fingers red.