"We're going to your uncle's house first,
then we will drive to the
Cemetery afterwards."

The word  
Cemetery
hit me then like the wing of a bird
struggling to beat against stormy wind,
clinging to currents to stay airborne.

It was nothing but what I had expected.
And yet, the plainness of such a word
pulled the rug from under my black shoes,
and sent me to the ground.

The ground, that was covered in
worms and mud,
unsettled and rearranged.
Wilting flowers stuffed into the windowsill vases.

The night before, my water had boiled over
You can, and you will. This is not about what you can or can't do.
Do you really not see how selfish you are?
This is so far above you.
  
My mum takes some flowers from
on top of the casket  
before it is claimed by the soil and no longer ours.
A red rose. A thistle. Baby's breath.
They are for my granny. She cannot make it.

Later, I hang them on our kitchen wall,
turned upside down, the hidden buds.
Here, they will dry out
and last forever with faded colours.
  
The clumsy semi-circle we form
listens to verses from the Minister,
huddled under shared umbrellas  
hiding from rain, though our faces are wet.

Later, the sky will clear,
an insistent spring afternoon,
as we listen to the entirety of his song,
my grip digging into the hands at our side,  
holding on to help us let go.

It ends with laughter
on our puffy faces
the sun breaking the rain-clouds outside
because there is nothing else to do
but to do nothing.
  
The clouds leak sorrows all night
as the world grieves
because how could it not?
In the kitchen, a window
left open spits a waterfall of wind
sending cards of condolence
sweeping to the floor.   

Tomorrow, we will drive past the
closed gates of the Cemetery
on our way to the Hospital
to deliver the flowers,
immortialised in their death.

For the second time, I'm five
watching the rain pelt the ground outside,
contained behind the glass which
fogs with the heat of the kitchen.
My granny laughs at her own jokes,
leaning over the kitchen counter cutting
up vegetables into boiling water.

"love" and "left" rhyme the same

If happiness is what you seek,
Step away from fortune’s peak.
Leave behind the rush and gold,
And walk where simpler tales unfold.

See that meadow, vast and bright,
Where golden wheat sways in the light.
Through the fields a stream does glide,
Winding gently, free and wide.

Stand amidst the open land,
Feel the earth beneath your hand.
No voices call, no crowds are near,
Just whispering winds you’ll only hear.

Close your eyes, breathe in deep,
Let the hush in silence sweep.
Now tell me true, without delay,
Did peace not find your heart today?

See that old man by the square,
Waiting in the scorching air.
His carriage worn, his hands so frail,
His strength now lost in life’s travail.

Step inside, let him steer,
Take him anywhere you hold dear.
When your journey meets its close,
Watch him wipe his weary brows.

See the tremble in his hands,
Weighed with time’s unkind demands.
Give him more than what is due,
A token kind, a gift from you.

See the sparkle in his eyes,
As his worries fade and fly.
The weary face once lined with strain,
Now softened into joy again.

Look upon his grateful smile,
Lingering there a little while.
Tell me now, in this embrace,
Did you not touch true grace?

Your child returns with tear-stained face,
A playground quarrel, a bruised disgrace.
He speaks of how the bully’s might,
Had left him lost, consumed with fright.

The bully too, a child alone,
Hiding now, afraid to atone.
He fears the wrath, the bitter fate,
That surely comes when power waits.

Walk to him, where shadows fall,
See him cower, frail and small.
Kneel beside him, speak with care,
Erase the fear, the deep despair.

“Come,” you say, “we all make wrongs,
But kindness turns the weakest strong.”
A tearful nod, a hand held tight,
The cold of fear gives way to light.