wordswithpixwithwords

I was looking for stamps,

The second drawer down

contained

an old postcard (unwritten)

seven AA batteries, a light bulb (candle bayonet fitting)

a roll of tape, instructions for a, long since gone, mobile phone

and a collection of the dead.

No stamps.

Faces on the Order of Service

were all smiling.

I remember those  smiles,

and laughter and who they

were.

I  carefully laid them out, by date,

forming a cortege across the

kitchen table.

I don’t recall the prayers or the hymns

I  get glimpses of  red and tearful eyes

or grim and stoical faces.

Handshakes, hugs,

deft touches on the shoulder

The air was filled with the muted tone

of

platitudes,

epithets

and the exhalations

of those,

we,

who were not

the dead.

I gather them together,

edges straight,

and place them back in their

pine, or light oak  box

I return them to a silent,

dark embrace,

I must remember to by stamps

I slide the drawer

closed,