She would have been twenty eight
today.
I felt some guilt at the overgrown
grave, the weeds and long grass.
Already someone else has laid a small
bouquet.
I get the tools from the car
and trim and cut in the still
summer silence.
I arrange the flowers as best I can
asking her to help me, she knows
what I’m like. I place the soft toy between
the two bouquets, hazarding at symmetry.
Only ten when we lost her.
Standing back at last the work all done
I wait for some sort of spiritual message.
Nothing.
I look for some sign in the clouds,
maybe a rustle in the trees.
Nothing.
Nothing.
On the drive back I remember
as I stood on her grave cutting
grass, pulling weeds:
“Hurry up Dad, you weigh a ton!”
and the flicking of her hair out of her
eyes, head thrown back
that cheeky mischievous grin
and realise she was with me all the time.
