Three years into grief I can sleep. I still
wonder how much boxed up stuff I will need
to remember you, me, lives, a childhood
spent in my cousin’s clothes and 70s wallpaper.
Orange, not my thing. I try to hold on to time,
letters, photographs, pretend I can pull you
right back by keeping shoes, that picture you drew
in your hospital art class. You asked
for Rembrandt’s ‘Night Watch’, but settled for cows.
I’ve become the curator of your museum.
What was yours, now treasured dead weight,
collecting dust. Three years into grief I sense you
in the light of the sun, solstice rain. You howl
through my soul like a storm with your stale breath.
Britta Benson is a circus skills instructing German, a writer, performer and linguist thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000. She runs a creative writing group, The Procrastinators, and writes a daily blog, Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland brittasblog422041504.wordpress.com as well as her poetry blog, Odds & Ends oddsends707138946.wordpress.com. She also stares out of her window a lot and drinks far too much tea.