Comfort

Thick,

fluffy,

white bread,

sliced by your soft old hands.

Toasted,

golden brown,

reminding me of crunchy autumn leaves.

Wearing a heavy coat of yellow butter like a duvet,

giving comfort,

and warmth,

and homeliness.

A satisfying crunch and warm butter flooding my mouth,

awakening my taste buds,

and stirring my heart

with warmth that transcends temperature…

This evening,

the weather is mild,

but my heart is cool.

And for the first time in near two decades,

I crave the comfort of your toast…

And you.

Image: myrecipes.com
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Secret Daffodil Garden

My heart stilled and swelled

upon seeing blossom trees

and daffodils

in this secret garden.

Cherishing a few snatched

minutes of stillness,

in and with myself,

I picked a bent daffodil;

a keepsake of this Gift to me.

My face turned upwards,

to the bright,

clear,

white

sky

hanging over me like a banner.

My eyes closed;

My heart full

with

gratitude,

love,

and

the pain of longing for you Grandad,

who loved daffodils so.

My spirit open,

with hope of what will be painted

on the blank sky that is

the open canvas of my life

for this year ahead,

As my ears fill with the swell of birdsong.

Image: DLB 6.4.19

Plastic lightbulbs and birthday cake

When breath becomes air

and air becomes still

When chest is frozen in breath’s

last exhale

When heart and lungs take their final bow

And exhale your Life

Then…

Like Cinderella’s carriage at midnight

the magic of life runs out

Life becomes a grey-painted wall

Stars which mapped the secrets of the constellations become plastic lightbulbs

and the Sun which lit the roads which led us to

an opened door,

a deep smile and

hugs smelling of

brylcreem and palmolive,

four layer birthday cake

and menus written on scrap envelopes,

twinkling, patient blue eyes and powdery-soft strong hands.

That sun now a broken car boot sale lamp,

faulty switch and bulb too weak to shine any light.

Did you know you were the sun and stars?

Did you know you were our inspiration, …my very air?

Did you know know KNOW

how much I loved you?

Please say yes.

Please

say

something.

Please…

stop being gone.

Simon Von Booys

I retreated

I arrived emotionally flat,

internal turmoil whirling;

I sat by the garden window,

I wrote poetry about the rain & flowers

& I prayed,

I drank coffee,

I prayed,

I cried,

I raged,

I listened to Switchfoot on loop (The Shadow Proves the Sunshine),

I listened to more poetry,

I prayed,

I drank coffee,

I cried,

I sang,

I read Narnia,

I sat,

I prayed,

I drank coffee,

I psychoanalysed,

I vented,

I cried,

I mourned,

I forgave,

I prayed,

I listened to more Switchfoot (The Blues!),

I danced by myself in the autumn sun,

I cried,

I wrote more poetry & prayers,

I ate & chatted & laughed with my friend some more…

I left feeling tired & awakened alike.

Switchfoot: The Shadow Proves the Sunshine

Seedy bread

This week, the inquest into the death a beautifully lovely girl began-she was a former student of mine. She was a rare, exceptionally kind, bright, well-loved girl. I wept a lot when she died; I’ve cried a lot this week. And I’m just a former teacher who liked & admired her. I cannot fathom the pain & heaviness for her family & friends. This is my thought today:

It’s sunny today.

But I can’t stop thinking.

She’ll never feel the sun again.

Because she’s dead.

All because of

a piece of seedy bread.

Ghanaian Grief

I just had an interesting couple of conversations with my Aunt & Uncle in Ghana whose mum just died today. I called to see how they both are, expecting sad or heavy emotions but instead they both answered the phone with their usual cheery banter. Then we laughed and did our usual mickey-taking ‘hello old woman/man’ repartee in Twi, our Ghanaian language. And they weren’t faking or putting on a brave face.
When I asked how they are each, separately, said there fine. But the interesting part was that my Aunt responded saying ‘How can I not be? I have your Grandma here, my family, so I am not alone, we are together and so we are fine’ (paraphrased).

And my ever piss-taking, professional wind-up Uncle echoed that when I later spoke to him, saying ‘Ah but at this age it is only a blessing, what else will happen? So it’s nothing to be sad or surprised about. It is fine.’
Now to western ears this may sound cold or ‘in denial’ but rather I think it reflects the general attitude of ‘joy balanced with pragmatism’ that permeates Ghanaian culture.
They’ll bury their mother tomorrow, within 24hours in line with her religion (not theirs as he’s, I think, either an apathetic theist or agnostic, & my Aunt is Christian). And at her funeral, there’ll be weeping (loudly!) in the Ghanaian style, but there’ll also be dancing.     Balancing the sorrow with celebration. And it will be BIG. And no one will be alone.

That’s the Ghanaian way.