The Five Senses of Grief
Grief tastes like
Coffee at ten o’clock at night because hands need
to be busy. Chicken and mashed potatoes.
Various types of cheesy potatoes: some with
cream of mushroom, some with sour cream,
all deliciously sad. French fries while you’re
running the errands of death. The Christmas
tree taste of gin, a shot of whiskey in honor
of a life cut far, far, far too short. Peppermint
gum. Three olives, speared by a tiny green sword;
salty like my tears.
Grief sounds like
Words that don’t make sense,
forever repeating in your ears:
We lost dad. We lost dad.
Lost dad. Dad. Dad.
Sympathies uttered in a line:
I’m sorry for your loss.
Sorry for your loss.
Your loss.
Loss. Loss. Loss.
Sniffles. Stories. Laughter.
Firefighters kneeling down,
looking into the eyes of broken boys,
“We’re here for you. We are family.”
Bagpipes in the rain, fading slowly
into the distance: the rain never slowing.
