On Watching Mr. Rogers Bury a Dead Fish

My grandchildren and I sat
mesmerized,
as he quietly,
carefully,
netted the little silver body,
wrapped it reverently
in a paper towel shroud,
troweled a hole in the yard,
and tenderly lay
the tiny white bundle
in the ground.
He patted the dirt back
like a gentle blessing.

Every so often,
he looked up
to check on us,
to reassure.

He spoke frankly
of sadness and tears,
of the animals we love that die
and how we miss them.

Afterward,
the kids went back
to drawing pictures,
as if the holiness they had just witnessed
were the most natural thing
in the world.

By Maria Brady-Smith