"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 harsh wind,
clinging to currents - desperately - to stay airborne.
This is so far above
my view
my head.
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.
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.
My Grandad Geoff
