Funeral prep
A year on, she lives, and I make sure she knows how much I care.
As gross as it is to admit it,
I can feel the beads of sweat forming on my lower back.
It’s 30 degrees outside, I’m in the attic,
Surrounded by cardboard boxes.
Filled with memories,
Filled with old treasures.
I’m wearing black cotton tights,
The only pair that still fit me,
Old school tights.
I squeeze my feet into my black boots,
The ones with the buckles on the side.
Once my favourite,
Now too small, they cause blisters.
I climb out of the attic.
I straighten up and observe my reflection,
Starting back at me in the full length mirror.
I don’t like what I see.
It isn’t right.
My only black dress, my darkest cardigan,
Both cling to my skin from the sweat.
I brush off the wrinkles as best I can.
My nicest funeral clothes.
It’s not much, but it’ll have to do.
Funerals don’t usually come with this much notice,
I’m lucky really.
They’ve given her a day at best,
Possibly only hours.
She’s alone in her hospital bed.
I’m too far.
She’s too sick.
I wish I could hold her hand,
I should have when I was able.
I know I’m going to carry this regret for the rest of my life.
But if I could,
If I could see her.
Show her how the boots she got me
On my 12th birthday,
They still fit.
Nearly 5 years later.
