a mound of sand
with his name on it
a blistering hot day
mountain in the background
and i don't know what to say
or do
so I sit
on someone else's grave
ethel
I sit and I think
and I say sorry
I don't know if he can hear
I don't think so
I picture a corpse
and realise I'm speaking to sand
then i suspend the belief
that he can hear
that this visit is special
to him
that all the other graves
with their myriad of stones and visits and love from their mourning families, are looking down on this moment
with me visiting him
and they're cheering him
saying "your daughter, look, your daughter has come"
and he sighs
and says quietly
"I knew there was love" "I knew she would - or maybe
I wasn't so sure
wasn't so absolute"...
and the Bergs and Steins and Bermans cheer
and pat him on the back
and I stand there
placing my stone on the white brick
with his name on it
Mr A Chalef
and a date
just a date
no "in loving memory"
that comes later
give it a year
I absurdly want to take a photo
to capture this moment
or to distance myself
probably..
now I sit in busy
bustling loud Vide Cafe sipping a coffee and eating a quattro muffin
whilst sunkissed latin tourists think of their days plans
And i have a headache
a pervading sense that
today is different.
