Funeral
Sunlight breaks over the mountains and the streets
begin to awaken. The birds call over the slow-moving lines
of steel and lights and rubber; the leaves photosynthesise and
the trees begin to grow. I'm pulled from my roaming by a
strange compulsion; my feet – on muscle memory alone – make
their way to your door. I pass through the garden overgrown, the
temperature drops as I make my way along the pathway of
cracked brick and seedlings of grass. The bird-bath that you used to
love is empty, and your avian friends have abandoned you. The front
door was once a brilliant green, but the skin has cracked and a ribcage
of splintered wood exposed for all to see. It opens on rusted
hinges but the rush of fetid air brings me to a halt. I thought
I heard your voice calling down the hallway, but I guess
you died alone. A ghostly apparition – almost angelic,
almost hellish – floats above your rigid body as I try
and bring the life back to your heart. With a haunting laugh,
the immaterial you rolls her eyes and scolds me; "that's
just not the way friends should behave".
After the funeral, we sit around your kitchen table in silence. The
house is largely repaired now, and absent of all the memories
and basal thoughts. The front door is alive in brightest emerald,
the bird-bath full and your cockatoos and galahs have returned
to find you gone. The broken clock in your hall, grandfatherly
in its wisdom, now sings on the hour – and with every passing
hour, you're forgotten more and more. The bottles of bad wine
make their revolutions around the mourning table, and somebody
suggests a celebration. Death was all you really wanted after all,
but I know it was a failure of your mind, and the kitchen is
full of the signs of your demise. I try not to look at the stainless
steel of the sink; you've somehow destroyed the surface
with stomach acid. I remember your eyes dripping salt
as you watched the frolicking birds from the window,
I remember my hands comforting you while my mouth
made excuses. The ghost of you still hovers over the
death party, and I see the regret form in your eyes, but I ignore it -
It's better to feel pain than nothing at all.
begin to awaken. The birds call over the slow-moving lines
of steel and lights and rubber; the leaves photosynthesise and
the trees begin to grow. I'm pulled from my roaming by a
strange compulsion; my feet – on muscle memory alone – make
their way to your door. I pass through the garden overgrown, the
temperature drops as I make my way along the pathway of
cracked brick and seedlings of grass. The bird-bath that you used to
love is empty, and your avian friends have abandoned you. The front
door was once a brilliant green, but the skin has cracked and a ribcage
of splintered wood exposed for all to see. It opens on rusted
hinges but the rush of fetid air brings me to a halt. I thought
I heard your voice calling down the hallway, but I guess
you died alone. A ghostly apparition – almost angelic,
almost hellish – floats above your rigid body as I try
and bring the life back to your heart. With a haunting laugh,
the immaterial you rolls her eyes and scolds me; "that's
just not the way friends should behave".
After the funeral, we sit around your kitchen table in silence. The
house is largely repaired now, and absent of all the memories
and basal thoughts. The front door is alive in brightest emerald,
the bird-bath full and your cockatoos and galahs have returned
to find you gone. The broken clock in your hall, grandfatherly
in its wisdom, now sings on the hour – and with every passing
hour, you're forgotten more and more. The bottles of bad wine
make their revolutions around the mourning table, and somebody
suggests a celebration. Death was all you really wanted after all,
but I know it was a failure of your mind, and the kitchen is
full of the signs of your demise. I try not to look at the stainless
steel of the sink; you've somehow destroyed the surface
with stomach acid. I remember your eyes dripping salt
as you watched the frolicking birds from the window,
I remember my hands comforting you while my mouth
made excuses. The ghost of you still hovers over the
death party, and I see the regret form in your eyes, but I ignore it -
It's better to feel pain than nothing at all.