The funeral long passed but the pain as fresh as any wound
I read through neglected Mass cards congealed in my fear
Relations, acquaintances, neighbours, hospice and friends
The support groups of our selfish pain, (as we still live on).
Words of comfort leap from the messages, some sterile,
But some cut to the bone and scrape the pain with precision.
I find myself crying alone, a man, but feeling like a lost infant,
No hand or wise word to guild me through. (I feel rudderless).
Turbulence ahead again after I thought I had steered clear at last,
A shock to my system, but my heart always knew it never left me.
No festive decoration can fill the empty chairs at half full tables.
Yet on such occasions I have found festive tales to raise the dead.
An Easter at Christmas so to speak, a family reunion of resurrections,
We remember and share tales we have heard many times before,
Enthralled by each narrator we sit in church silence, till we laugh.
The glow of pride that reminds us, we had shared the lived memories
I see in each of the faces the smiles of those we lost along the way,
And make the promise to life, to make room for deflected reflections.
7th May 2016
Copyright © Seosamh De Burca | Year Posted 2016