Young Writers Society

David Pottle: In Loving Memory of

I remember your jumper was brown,
though the photo insists on grey,
and you sit on yesteryear's sofa 
like it was only yesterday.

And I wore the brooch you got me,
though it wasn't you who paid,
but you can't wear a black tape player
and the cigarette smoke will fade.

I remember you in the land of spain
where the sun burned through your skin,
but I saw it in a photograph;
our memories are thin.

And I stood in the short procession
and I sat in the lonely pews
and I didn't like black pudding
or the Magic Moment Blues.

But I remember your dog was Toby
and that's something we can share.
I called my character Tobias;
I'm not sure you'd really care.

And I watched them take your coffin
and I wondered: was it full
of ashes from your ashtray
and I marked the service dull.

I remember mother crying
but I don't think I cried at all;
I saved my tears for later
and lately I've let them fall. 

______________________
A free-write I may one day re-visit, though I don't think I'd ever be brave enough to share it with le madre, especially not without taking away some sections, which wouldn't be true to myself. We don't talk about my uncle. I think she'd like to but the realisation is always she knew him too well and I too little.