Remnants

Remnants

They say that “after great pain, a formal feeling comes”,

But for now?

There was no welcome outside from Grandma,

upon driving up to the farmhouse,

Nor even upon entering from her sat upon her bed.

What really hit me at first,

was seeing the image of Grandma’s walking frame,

Positioned outside near the wooden sitting bench,

While she of course was not attached to it,

The object still held her energy and spirit,

For even the white laundry basket was placed

in the middle of the walking frame,

Still, a third full of hay,

From when she’d been throwing it over the fences for the animals to eat.

I really wish mum and dad had emptied that - I thought.

It was, as if, it was the closest reminder that her death had been so recent,

That the residual remnants of her existence were still carrying on,

Or were at least now -

Frozen in time.

Reminders too painful to fully acknowledge,

And yet, necessary all the same.

Her dog Tammy, was at home at the farmhouse in Grandma’s absence,

Frolicking around outside and going from room to room.

Whilst I was getting changed in Grandma’s room for the funeral -

The air still had her aroma, the room still set out for her,

Pictures taped to the mirror and walls,

including a recent one enlarged of Grandma holding baby George,

A silence, an emptiness - a vacuous chasm of longing and sadness -

Leaving a lump in my throat.

Tammy tried to enter as I was changing and I shut the door,

Exclaiming “I’m getting ready”.

I’m sure Grandma would have opened the door widely and let her enter,

For she disliked having it shut to begin with.

Mum said Tammy had been in Grandma’s bed the night before,

and consoled the little dog,

She had been shaking, sensing that a friend, her only friend,

Was suddenly no longer present.

The thoughts were eating at me:

Did she have to be so frequently resigned to her bed?

Couldn’t we have taken her out of this damn house more?

And in answer - no and yes.

But for now there is the grieving to attend to, the formalities,

And then, soon, the memories too.

I wish she could have been at her funeral -

I think, for the most part she would have really liked it,

To have seen everyone together and,

For it to have been a tribute to her,

I think the socialising and togetherness,

Would have really done her well, I sigh.

What’s now left?

Her remnants in each of us.

-2021

* Thanks for reading my autobiographical, narrative-style poem. If you liked it, please let me know by hitting the heart and commenting to help encourage further poems and stories of mine. Many thanks.

You can also check out my recent poem “The Bookstore” here: