After the funeral,
Returning home, I stand in the hall and take off my boots
The light is weak; the night is dark
I look up and see the kitchen where we spent many Christmases and birthdays
And the conversations that would never come again
Come back, come back! He said
But I left nonetheless
But I came back too, eventually.
The death, something I dreaded and thought about all my life is now true.
Once as a boy, maybe aged ten, I began to cry in class
“What is the matter?” The teacher asked.
“I am afraid that one day my parents will die” I replied, and she kindly
told me it would be many years away, but the class laughed still
That a boy should start to cry in class over something like that
How strange.
We worked in the office together for a year
And I loved her
But never said anything. How things could have been different.
My mind, standing in the hall wanders to these other things
And I feel ashamed.
I look up and realise how lonely this house is now. Silent.
I once loved silence.