It sat in my car for weeks
that folded paper thing
they hand you at funerals
as if grief needs a programme.
Today I tossed it in the bin.
And in some strange way,
he went with it.
I know how that sounds.
But the truth is a cold thing,
and the truth is
he no longer exists.
The body he inhabited
finally gave up its argument with time,
both of them are gone,
the body, the man.
I have heard people say
you keep the dead alive
by living as though they haven’t left.
A place at the table,
A voice in the decisions,
But they are not there.
They live in memory only,
and memory, as you know,
is a fickle and untrustworthy friend.
It edits,
It softens,
It loses the sound of a laugh
before it loses the idea of one.
So I threw away the pamphlet.
Not him. Never him.
Just the paper proof
that once, there was a funeral,
and once, I sat in a car
Powerfully penned, Peter. Excellent write with many layers my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian