the shortbread at the funeral MAG

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


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.

The author's comments:

This is a poem I wrote while dealing with grief.

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