Mamma Still Calls Your Name

It was like the sun did not rise and mourning birds sang no morning melody. The heavens were so grey, pouring like Noah's floods, preparing me for the storm, which drowned my heart. I felt like a butterfly helpless against the wind. I had no time to build an ark nor to sail towards those uneven paths, which would allow me to hear your last breath. Maybe hold your hand and hear you call my name one last time. I will never forget that moment of silence, when the world seemed to pause and I feel, I'm still standing still, feeling numb, unable to express myself, so I supress myself. Waiting for the birds to sing. To trigger suppressed sentiments, but there is no metaphor for this void I feel, like the emptiness of the room, where you would say; "my prince has come home" You would always ask if I was hungry, still force me to eat when I was not. Together we would pick sweet grapes from those vines, which ran high up against your sage veranda. You would always bring out the pot I cracked, when I was six, saying with a nostalgic look; "Hands of my first grandson broke this." How you would treasure such memories. The season of death has returned, to steal my jewel away from me. I look in dismay at discoloured fallen leaves, scattered like my emotions. Will those fruits ever taste the same, now that your precious hands cannot pick them? Who will treasure what I broke? You used to always call grandpa's name, now I know you are together again. Mama still calls for you, I say to myself, she has gone, mum, as has her laughter and her smile. There will be no more hugs, no one to call nanna now. The sky still remains dark, but the floods seem to be easing and I know one day the sun will return, as will the birds, singing in your remembrance.