Doux

On Mourning

When my grandfather died last month
I just wondered why I didn't feel sad.
I did love him a lot.

Today, I looked at his number still saved
on my phone, begging for it to mean something.

I didn't really call him a lot when
he was alive.

On the first day of the new year
I cried for the old one.
I cried and cried till I got a headache
I mourned old dates and the city growing old
and grey and I mourned this body
made of guilt and regrets.

I didn't go to the funeral.

When I told my friend about wanting
to throw myself in front of a running car
he only laughed, a bit concerned.
I was not joking. I wish dying was that
easy. I wish it was that insignificant,
and that unnecessary.

Last week, my mother took out a shawl
that belonged to my grandmother
which my grandfather gave to her after
she died. It carries them both in its folds.
She wears it out, says grief
isn't meant to be kept 
locked away in a cupboard, and neither
is love. I touch it
and my fingers are heavy
with memory.