The 18th of August

I speak to a headstone. 

I tell you of your boys. your boys I've come to love. 

of our friendship, our true friendship that only thickens the blood we share. how everyone tells us how thrilled you'd be to see us so close. 

I tell you of the home video vhs footage of you, that I had put on dvd to give to your boys. one of them on each of your knees, as you introduced them to the uncles illegally in the states. unable to travel home to ireland. (f you, america)

I tell you of the other day, as i showed them the footage. 

they have no memories of you, slates wiped clean from the grief.

your voice. oh your voice and your beautiful face. 

many times I've watched it.

but your boys seeing you, I'll never forget. 

"play it again." they ask to see you over & over & over.

your boys are men. men who raise cattle & sheep, bail silage, drive lorries, and date beautiful women. men who have friends that show up for them, as is returned. friends even I have fallen for. and oh, do they love to set me up with their friends.

but men that fall weak at the sight of your face and the sound of your heavenly voice.

they're good, auntie. they're good, but dear god do they need you. 

there's nothing fair about a mum of 6 that withers away at 45. nothing fair at all. but there's nothing fair about much these days. 

I love them for you. they're the image of you, and "proud" does not entail the joy you'd find in seeing them now. 

so I talk to your headstone. cry to it too. walk through your house soaked in memories, a place that has forever felt empty since you left it.

I love the Lord, as did you. I'm jealous He took you. I get angry, because He gets you forever and your boys lost you too young. 

but someday He will share you.

'til then, I'll love your boys and talk to your headstone.