the shortbread at the funeral This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

February 15, 2018
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Not a day goes by I don’t

miss you.
Not a moment passes where I don’t long for a
Not just any old
Not just any crumbly, dry, moderately sweet
The location is important.
I want to open the doors to the
well -lit pantry,
Open the jar without living in fear,
or guilt.


I want to walk past the window and see
the chair.
The chair that brought me so much joy.
The cushy black chair with the rounded edges,
so you could sit in the sun and sleep.
For the short time before the chair left,
I sat in it.
I’d never done it before.
It was always for
The tears never came out of it properly.
The chair, that is.
Although there were plenty of other
tear stained things.

They tried to reassure me,
they said,
“no, it’s fine,
it’s what she would have

I sat in it.
And as I said my words,
prepared next to
your body,
fresh from a kiss on your
one from me, one from death,
licking the salt from my
the wax from yours,
I hope someone could turn
on the light.


I felt an odd feeling
so common in my mind
but so wrong in this place.
And as I leave,
I fold my paper,
perching it high on a shelf,
to topple every time I close the door.

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