Seated on a purple mat
I open the wood, engraved
box which holds
small pieces of my father
I remove the top
Exposing him to fresh air, sunlight
Small sprinkles of ash with
larger, more defined pieces of hard bone
resting on top
Running my finger along the rim
it becomes covered in his dust
I begin to nourish my orchid with his ashes
Wondering
is he nourished in return

Do you feel your body seperating again?
Do you know?
Was your spirit ****** into the flower ***?
Or the creases of my porch mat?

Tears dribble down my skin
Dripping like rain, down my chin
Wondering if he'll ever come back
Into this world that's as dark as black
Shivering, shuddering down my throat
Drowning in sorrows
In my own boat

what they don’t tell you about funerals is that nothing ever feels real in that too-cold room. not the flowers. not the food. not the rooms in the back your uncles stayed in to keep watch. not the ill-fitting white t-shirt your father made you purchase yesterday. not the sad smile on your grandmother’s face instead of her usual bright ones. and certainly not the dead body of your grandfather in the epicenter, still as the corpse he is and none like the grandparent you grew up with.

there was no such thing as an open casket in your family, which was good, you suppose. it’d be too much to see his face without his usual frown. the smell was off. like tea and incense and flower petals—the ones you used to bathe the buddhist statues at the vihara every new year.

the catered pork ribs taste like sandpaper. you keep waiting for the buttery taste of your grandfather’s recipe to hit your tongue but you are met with msg. it was one of the many disappointments you encountered in those three days, three absences from school. none of your friends checked up on you further than to offer their “deepest condolences”. your crush has not texted you back. you drink bottled mineral water as your mother fights with your father, whose father had just died, again.

by the time the ceremony comes you are confronted with the gold of the casket up close. you wonder if it was real gold. a few hours ago your little cousins, yet to understand the concept of death, tugged at your sleeves and asked when grandpa would be home. you sealed your lips shut and let your younger cousin handle them like she always does. because you’re not ready to admit that you don’t understand death either; not in second grade when the dragonfly your classmates cruelly stomped on no longer flew, not even less than a month later, when your other grandfather passes.

you whisper words of prayer in the mother tongue you no longer remember. your cousin sheds a tear in front of you and you wonder if it’d be appropriate to console her now. you think about how much your kneecaps hurt from kneeling for a long time. your aunt’s cries perfectly masked the buzzing phone you sneaked into your pocket. later that night, your third uncle told everyone that he saw his father-in-law welcomed by guan yin herself; you wonder if it was true, or merely another lie adults tell kids and themselves to feel better about the nonsensical nature of mortality.

what they don’t tell you about funerals is how much like a fever dream they are. when the proceedings are over you drive straight home. home smells like home and your maid made your bed like usual. the stuffed bear on your pillow has not moved since the morning. it is 11 pm, and your mother yells at you to sleep soon because your grandfather may be a jar of ashes stored in vihara but you have school tomorrow. it is time to go to bed.

known to all that he had lost,
all that is valuable within him.
kneeling down in pure exhaust.
and now, cutting emotions in his world so dim.

shush the wind for its noise,
hear his heart wince in pain.
imagining their voice,
hear the cry of the rain.

at last, he showed the emotions.
turning his back on the facade he shows.
arguably the man showed no motions,
keeping the tears that continually flows.

etched in his heart is the still of mourning and grieving.

The Shape of Mourning
by Michael R. Burch

The shape of mourning
is an oiled creel
shining with unuse,

the bolt of cold steel
on a locker
shielding memory,

the monthly penance
of flowers,
the annual wake,

the face in the photograph
no longer dissolving under scrutiny,
becoming a keepsake,

the useless mower
lying forgotten
in weeds,

rings and crosses and
all the paraphernalia
the soul no longer needs.

Keywords/Tags: shape, mourning, bolt, steel, locker, memory, memories, penance, wake, keepsake, memento, rings, crosses, paraphernalia

I hate that I’m used to you being gone.
I hate that I don’t see you in every corner of life.
I hate that I only see you in the small things,
When somebody mentions they hate broccoli or loves chips.

(you passed that on to me you know, I think I could rival your love for chips)

When I hear someone recount a childhood story of scouts or -
When I hear bing crosby being played -
When I see an old steam train in a museum or -
When I see an old man playfully stick out his dentures at a child.

I hate that I’m used to you being gone.
I hate that I have to trigger the memories of you.
That I have the remind myself of who you were and what you loved,
That I think of you everyday but I’ve grown used to it.

(I’ll always remember your hands but the placement of the pale skin patches are fading)

I hate that I’m used to you being gone.
I hate that I felt closer to you when you had just left.
I noticed every small detail,
though it brought so - much - pain
little pieces of you still echoed.
a pillow you were the last one to touch,
a mug you had used the day before, a horizontally striped polo that still smelt like silvikrin and extra strong mints.

- but now your echo has gone silent and I have to go searching to find it
and it gets quieter every time.

This is where we go
when we die: into the hearts
of those who love us

8:57 PM
27/3/20