The Funeral (She Is Not Dead) Poem by Sally King

How can we mourn her passing when
She sits
As she has always sat
In her chair by the window.
Her long painted fingers wrapped around a lit cigarette
Curls of warm, sweet, dirty air rising to
The ceiling yellowed with the tar of a thousand cigarettes.
On the table, tea, chocolates, flowers,
Always flowers
Pink, red and green blooms.

She wears a red jumper
With a roll neck and wide ribbed knitting,
A few stains of lunches past dotted down the front.
She always wears the same red jumper.
I know she had others:
Blue, black, beige,
Colours to match a hundred pairs of shoes,
But in my head
It is always the same red.

On the floor and the table rest
Piles and piles of magazines of shining celebrities,
Bright, false smiles and weddings, that
With her thick, green-rimmed glasses
She says she cannot see.
But she sees me.
She always notices the style of my hair,
The cut of my trousers,
The height of my shoes.

How can we sing our hymns and cry our tears when
She is not dead,
She is still there.
I see her in my head,
Sitting, smiling,
Vibrant lipstick on the teacup,
In her chair by the window.

(For Gran, she was such a constant in my life and will be missed,2006)