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There Is Nothing More Poetic Than Grief

Our own little antemortem wake

As we soak in his final goodbye.

As the car drives off we can contain ourselves no longer

And the grief pours out around us

.

We huddle for a moment, the most united we have ever been

Before we fracture into our separate Selves once again.

That singular moment of one-ness, united by grief, will stay with me

.

We wander into the kitchen. A funny sight, the four of us dotted around the room, buried in our solitary sorrows

.

I'm offered a drink - two options - oh, and a third - 'ach, you will!'

I take the first. Next the kettle is on, the cake box passed around, shaken 'til I select my share;

The old Irish hospitality, I'd forgotten about that.

So tightly clung-to, the glue keeping my uncle together, that I dare not deny him for fear he would fall apart there and then.

This little sacrifice is the only thing I can offer him in his hardship, so I take the orangeade, and a slice of fruit loaf, and cry into my scarf.

What a funny welcome home, and I wouldn't have it any other way