becoming forgetful
where do I live, again?
crumbling tower block
© Rachel Green October 2024
my father died in January,
a couple of days before my sister's birthday
and I went out to play boardgames
because I didn't want to travel
the two hours to Birmingham
after a long work day.
In the crematorium
the sun shone through the rain
and the celebrant made the same joke
he must have made a thousand times
about the sun shining on the righteous
and though he was a decent man,
Dad would have denied the moniker.
He was able to hold a grudge
for the smallest of reasons,
like the Vicar telling him
"It's good to see you after so long,"
or the neighbour three doors down
borrowing his wheelbarrow for more than the hour he said.
He was a man of his time;
casually racist, homophobic, transphobic,
but he'd stand up for the right of anyone
to go about their life without judgement
though in private he'd have pet names for them
rude and demeaning
but never to their face
unless it was couched in sarcasm.
© Rachel Green October 2024
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