Ashes
My dead son’s ashes lie on the
dining room table waiting to be set free
He lingers amidst the pictures spread
beneath him, images of better times
Photographs of some who are gone.
I do not want him reduced to the
indifference of a death certificate.
The coroner returned his lighter and
my grandmother’s turquoise ring.
An addict leaves a lot of debris,
a miasma begging for relief that
takes forever to sort through,
searching for how to mend what
can never be made right.
He hovers near as I wonder
how long before I can accept
the empty space he left behind.
3 thoughts on "Ashes"
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Kathy,
This is an extraordinary poem. The weight and depth of loss and the emptiness felt fills the white space. The poem’s shape (an urn?) adds to the complexity of life taking up so much space and in death, physically reducing one’s size to a shockingly small one in the midst of the vast collection of memories and presence that lingers. WOW!
Thank you H.A. It has been 9 years ago today, still hard to hold.
I, like H.A. see a shape of urn and love it.
Heartbreaking and lovingingly honest throughout. These first lines say so much:
“My dead son’s ashes lie on the/dining room table waiting to be set free” as do the last at the task ahead “how long before I can accept/the empty space he left behind.”