It's the first time I've ever
bought you flowers;
I only realise this
when I'm minutes away
from your funeral.

A mother's passing
is the first death her children
will grieve without her.

In the stillness of the morning
When chores are done
And children begin their day away
I try to test that old saying about loss

That material things are irrelevant
And it’s the memories that count
So when it’s quiet and the pain creeps in
I try to think of you

Fond memories of summer beach trips
Football stadiums and trivial pursuit
Those daily phone calls and silly emails
Surprise gifts for littles kiddos

But memories fade
and I fear the day
My children forget all the loving gestures
The sound of your voice
And your ability to inspire

I’m not supposed to be stuck on things
Those things that were attached to you
But that’s the trouble of things, you see
They’re tangible and true

A favorite sweater
hung on an empty office chair
That unfinished book on your nightstand
so new it has no wear

I see these things
I touch these things
They were what made you, you
The trouble with things is that they make me feel
If for just a moment, nothing’s changed
And you’re still here

That yummy recipe taped to the fridge
A perfume bottle set by the sink
Your shoes next to the door
A treasured knick-knack
The favorite chair
And your framed beloved pet

These things I know
They are not you
But I cannot bare to toss

The trouble with things
Is I can see and feel them
But they’re all we have left of you.

Dedicated to my Mother-n-law  1/26/1947-2/11/2019

-MS

What is our maker, why does it put us here to die
What is Life if it must end,
What of our sense of beauty,
Of mesmeric minster air?
Or the way light bends on a summer afternoon,
The way the mourning dove croons,
If it must be taken all away,
When some of us must go and some of us to stay?

What is the love we feel,
For one another—deep, fearsome and real?
Why put it there for us to overcome,
Since the tension of love is not for some.
Or why take it into our hearts,
Only to wrench and stab us as we part?

Especially those who love only a few?
They open themselves to one or two—
Pour every part of their being into one soul,
Ignoring those who can't make us whole,
If only to watch it drain, or disappear as they depart?
Taking with them all our mind and heart?

Why do we expect an explanation
Of this cruel phenomenon,
The findings, trials and accommodation
That we build our lives upon?

And yet, with hope, however weak,
Stanching up our wavering hearts,
We tell ourselves we’ve found what we seek,
Something deeper than knowledge or art,
Until we are torn apart.

No religion can explain it.
Psychology tries and fails to name it.
We are creatures of mist and desire,
Of logic and deliberation,
Whose desperate brains whisper “Find a cure!”
And we wait only to have experts demur.

But deep within our harrowed souls,
We know that, for only a few,
Does this equation work,
And for the rest of us, it pales.
We plummet toward the hangman’s ****
And yet thank him for his gruesome work.

For our few bittersweet tales of life,
And that relief we feel comes at last,
Though we’ve no reason to believe it so.
We merely seek an end to the heartrending past,
Even if it just marks us as life slows.
And watches us as we go.

Does anyone care what happens to the lonely,
Or especially the aggrieved?
I doubt they do; they care about only
Themselves, their desires and taking leave.
Then they swiftly exit, and discard us—the bereaved.

Sharon Talbot
August 11, 2015

Some days I’m floored
Some days it’s still a shock
Some days I’m so happy I cry
because I never thought I would be
There’s so much I would love to tell you
and so much you already know
Your belief in me has remained
after your death
Your hugs have lasted
longer than from when you let go
I miss you mum
But I feel you in my life
stronger than ever
I’m becoming myself
and you’re right there
You’d be so proud of me

I only find out
three years after you died.
So far as I knew, you were still out there,
scamming and scheming,
racking up more debts you’d never pay,
dreaming up your next dodgy deal,
the bonanza you knew was your birthright.  
Three years on, I learn that you’re dead.
I shouldn’t be sad about it.  
The unvarnished truth of it is
you were a bit of a *******:
a con man, a crook;
a lousy business partner, a nightmare debtor,
a negligent father, a faithless husband, 
a bad boss and a shady friend.
You didn't even like Champagne; 
you just liked other people seeing you drink it.
Yeah, you were a *******,
but you were our *******.
Our Fagan, our Black Beard, our
cockney Don Corleone,
lurid legend of the tabloids and consumer shows
with your Montecristo cigars and malapropisms,
your E-types and your excesses,
your bankruptcies, both financial and moral.  
You looked after us.  You took us in.
Any port in a storm,
and those were stormy times,
and - although it came close - we didn’t drown.
Perhaps it’s gratitude, or
misplaced loyalty,
that pinches uncomfortably somewhere inside me,
when I hear about how you went.
It should have been different.
There should have been some last stand,
a blaze of dubious glory, a final reckless burn
as you rode one right off the cliff edge.  
It shouldn’t have been so small, so dismal,
so unremarkably tragic.
Back in the day, I wasn’t even sure you could die;
I figured you’d just move on and start up
some new franchise operation,
reincorporated under a new name, in a new town.  
But when I heard you were dead,
I think what shocked me most
was finding out it wasn’t suicide.