the shortbread at the funeral

February 15, 2018
By shortbread BRONZE, Palmerston North, Other
shortbread BRONZE, Palmerston North, Other
2 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Not a day goes by I don’t

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

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

 

I felt an odd feeling
jealousy
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.


The author's comments:

This is a poem I wrote while dealing with grief.


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