I am sorry for your passing

Image for post
Image for post
Photo by Jonathan Borba on Unsplash

For a friend

When we die we end,
ash in an urn while the dogs
still eat their food,
the toast still cowers under jam,
the toilets still refuse to flush,
and our hands still get wet.

Do you stand and cry at the end?
Do you wipe your cheeks
and climb the steps to wake again
and make the coffee?
Do you run your finger across
the fireplace to check for dust?

And when you fall from the chair
to hit your head on the carpet
do they rush to your side
standing, and swaying,
weighing the saving
from a walk worth taking?

What’s left is an empty bed,
blankets removed and washed.
Dishes are filed, a checkbook torn,
and a chair sits empty
while the urn sits on a shelf;
twin candles full forever.

Written by

Husband. Father of four. Cyclist. Musician. Poet. Sci-fi enthusiast. Writes from Boston, MA.

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