Why I’m tired of being bereaved

 It’s fifteen short years – today – since my dad passed away.

Five long months since my mum did the same –

and two sets of grandparents, before and in between.

My black suit’s hung up, hopefully for a while.

I’m clearing out cupboards, releasing old bones

from my present day guff to stuff from my teens.

I’ve been grieving, on and off, for twenty-five years:

funerals, death, and the emptying of heart,

that beiging of walls that one’s small life becomes.

But my eyes are tired of closing to what’s vibrant.

And I’m done with that greyish half-life not lived.

The anniversary today, I wanted quiet to think

but what I got was the buzz of life and a blocked sink.

I wonder if it’s finally time to colour my house

with the glories of living, not the shadow of a hearse.

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