In Remembrance

Sometimes there are things you want to say
And you’re all but bursting with it, like a child
Running outside into the rain, happy and carefree
And you stumble at the door, stop on your tracks
Because there’s no one inside the house
And you tell yourself the news can wait
When he gets home. At the dinner table you’ll open up
About this letter from the publisher, it said yes, you’ll say
And should you open a champagne, Pinot Noir or Chardonnay?
The occasion calls for it and you have leftover canapes
Of course, he’ll nod and beam widely and open his arms
And you will run into them, engulfed in the familiar smell
Of sawdust and sweat and man
It will be a tight hug, with his cheek on your hair
And with a gentle sway in place, side to side
He’ll tell you how proud he is and you’ll run away for a week
To Russia or Uruguay, where your adored writers lived and…
Your thoughts will falter for in the corner is an empty chair
And you’ll recall with vivid clarity and a kick in the gut
The man who used to sit and stare into the hills
Waiting for you to come home, nervous, excited
But now there’s only his favourite coat, faded and worn
And the memory of a quiet afternoon, of the rain and the sea
The look on his face when he was about to take the plunge
The sound of crashing waves and the unmistakable thud
The wail that tore at your throat as you ran, disbelieving
It has been three years and you wonder in despair
When you’ll accept he’s never coming home
You make a mental note to buy flowers
Carnations and lilies, the ones he always offered to make you smile
The dead want to be remembered and you never forget

 

Lately, I’ve been feeling down. Maybe it’s all the deadlines and the stress of agonising over them. Maybe it’s the restlessness of wanting a change of atmosphere. This city bores me.

Or maybe it’s the fact that this month marks the death anniversary of a loved one. Three years. It has been three years. It felt like yesterday, at least the swift pang of grief. But it also felt like a century. I can’t even remember his voice anymore.

This is for you, little cousin. I will remember you always.