The Death Calendar

Almost Easter 

Our Mum died at home  

from the cancer  

she fought against, battled against, warred against, 

for three years that stretched into eternity, 

Dad holding her hand, it was all he could manage.    

At Easter she conducted the celebrations 

from her hospital bed 

erected in our living room,     

a carefully created symphony  

where the orchestra expertly played our parts.   

We shared her last supper; 

hot buffet carefully crafted, 

steaming meat pie smell wafted  

through our home,  

pickled red cabbage 

stinging our lips, sour on our tongues. 

Outside her house  

once small hands  

dig dig digging 

the earth, the fresh smell of soil 

and dung and decay, digging and delving 

a grave for Jesus in our garden, 

carefully placing the egg-shaped stone, 

forever waiting for it to be rolled away.  

The Easter tree, expertly erected  

before her hands had grown too weak,  

twigs twined and painted eggs  

from generations past and present  

placed upon its branches,  

some delicate and beautiful,  

some covered in slap dash paint, glitter  

and the prints of small fingers, 

each one a memory, a hope   

smooth in our hands, hung  

on the rough brown bark. 

We did not know then 

that's where they'd remain,  

for ten years more, 

that there they would stay,

until it was Dad’s turn to die. 

 Memories of Summer 

Lying in the back of our car  

a soft pillow cushions me 

against the bumps of the road, 

a snug duvet embracing me. 

A ghost drives me through the night 

and calls me her child, 

a ghost sings soft songs 

and strokes my face with gentle fingertips of silk. 

A ghost plays driving games 

and conducts a series of rounds, 

a ghost smiles at me in the mirror. 

And as we near the coast's edge, 

the hotel on the cliff, haunted with memories, 

stands above the sea of time. 

Laughter echoes down empty corridors, 

the smell of blown out birthday candles 

lingers in the air. 

On the beach below 

I glimpse ghosts with boogie boards, 

catching and grasping the waves, 

riding white horses into the shore. 

A ghost scoops us into towels, 

my sister’s laughter mingles with mine, 

floats through the salty air, 

then disappears, like Mum did. 

There is no ghost to drive me home. 

 The Days Between Christmas and New Year 

Our Dad died in hospital  

from the cancer  

there was no time to fight, 

reduced to a living skeleton, 

in less than a week gone,   

diagnosis to death  

in six days. 

No New Year celebrations,  

unless you count strangers  

blasting fireworks in the streets outside.    

No Auld Lang Syne. No prosecco. No resolutions. 

Wishing for a gentle passing,  

I savoured the soft silence  

in between  

the flow and ebb of visitors, 

ten years ago, when Mum died, 

they’d been treated  

to pie and cabbage and Simnel Cake.   

Now the smell of antiseptic  

wafted through the ward, 

weak tea was grasped in tarnished cups, 

a kindly nurse with a sad smile handed out 

Christmas boxes, Pandora’s, 

containing deep within 

a turkey sandwich, an iced cake.  

The Christmas tree in the sad family room 

watched bad news being broken, 

the smell of pinecones and loss 

pervaded the air,   

then he was gone 

and we moved on, returned to his house, sucked 

through the black hole of Christmas back into Easter 

in one small step, one giant leap. 

We stripped the memories from his home, 

took down the painted eggs, hanging on 

the leafless Easter tree, there since Mum died, 

the leafless Easter tree, finally felled. 

January’s Passing 

From this railway carriage, 

I see no fairies to go faster than 

and the hedges and ditches drown in black tar. 

Seats lacking cushioning transform into electric chairs, 

transporting me away from the living skeleton called Daddy, 

lumps pushing through his ribcage like ripe figs, 

tubes delving into his skin, plugged into a battery without charge. 

Beyond the window, trees with their branches bare  

reach into the sky, reverse lightning bolts 

jolting electricity through my veins. 

I am the child who clambers and scrambles 

against the grit and bone and frozen dust, 

all of the sights of the hill and the plain 

taste like ash in my mouth, 

and the thick driving rain 

shatters like tears of glass on the ground. 

Tears that tear through the silence, 

pressed down like apples, 

obscure the rhythm 

of the train on tracks 

as it drags me from him. 

And I flow, 

feeling like the fluid of time 

slipping through his bony fingers, 

gnarled like tree roots, 

connected to a trunk 

with too few rings. 

I can still feel his rice paper cheek, 

his eiderdown wisps of hair, 

I hear his mumbling melodies 

in the molecules in the air, 

the smell of antiseptic and talcum powder 

linger long, 

as I am strapped into my seat. 

There’s no going back, no going back 

chant the wheels, the cogs of time ever turning. 

I look out the window, see 

his face amongst the heather, 

I had my glimpse,  

now it’s gone forever. 

The Day Before Valentine’s 

The crem for my Dad’s funeral, the same 

as my Mum’s,  

only one for miles around, so familiar  

even after a ten-year hiatus. 

The pine fresh smell,   

the ushering in one door out the other,   

like left luggage on a conveyer belt, 

the smooth wooden pews, still the same.   

The coffin covered in a forest of foliage 

and painted eggs  

waiting to be burned,   

the people,   

the hushed whispers, the tears,  

the 'I'm sorry for your loss,' again the same.  

All you need is love emerged  

from unseen speakers 

as the soft green curtain drew to a close, 

I saw them together once more, 

dancing cheek to cheek, 

after ten years of waiting, the same again. 

Later, I flew home 

a painted egg in my hand. 

#grief #alwayswithus