Get me the white flowers

the ones we planted in ’78

the ones that grew over the garden gate

the only memory left we didn’t manage to taint

with regret and hate

the garage full of possessions and obsessions for the things we cannot change

the sum of all she was cannot be quashed, equated with the ornaments and the shit in the loft

lurking behind every trinket is a decision, a human rationale

he sits there on the sofa gathering dust, a breeze floats through the open door revealing a dwindling morale

he dwells in the darkness always facing the light, blue tit creeping up the ornamental pig he mutters

“if this is a sign from God that Grandad is near then the bird will come in”

No sooner the thought from his brain to his mouth, an inverse incantation, the bird flies into the sky. Not a miracle then but maybe a space in between, a thin place where things can be seen

all she wanted was white flowers, maybe he was wrong about her true intent, a ranting phone call later, he laments, it was indeed to do with withdrawing from the bank of love, years put away as down payment, now the debt is due for the truth above

but grief is more complex than shades of grey, and the knowledge there are no easy answers is the price we all have to pay and pay

the man hires a man with a van to take away his pain and whilst he’s there he can take the ancient divan

now he’s looking for reason and resolution in the words on the page, but the question should be when has it ever been different or ever been the same? No point posing the same propositions over and over and over again

The white flowers are his only friend today, they listen silently to his refrain, dwelling in the darkness but always looking towards the light.

Copyright John de Gruyther 2019

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