For Dad …..now dead.

Sometimes grief can be geometric in its sharp painful angles. Horizontal you lay on the bed.

Dying luminously in the incandescent streaming sun by the rectangular window.

Dust danced in the golden haze over your pain as you twisted to lie on the bed’s edge.

This desperate sickness has stolen the memory of who you used to be and yet I grabbed at the memory.

Your arm linked in mine a wedding march, my pretty too high heels hurting. The watching eyes at leveled angles absorbing and drowning me. I must have trembled. and you said: “If you are ever unhappy you can always come home”

The dust rises and dances in a bright angle of yellow gold.