SECOND SON

There may be no mention of your name

no legacy to impregnate with grandeur over drinks;

the mythos of your being lies underneath the lid of a marble box with what is left of you

and what’s left is still probably too much.

 

They say of dust and to dust,

but you’re a fragile tangle of decomposition in the suit and shoes you barely got to wear in your youth 

you can break them in now for as long as you need

until they fit right.

 

It’s always too late to call and remind you of frivolous homemade joys,

I baked a cake, we repainted the walls

we fought again and again about the same things

the house is cracking in all senses.

 

I stop myself at the same time every year

but in different rooms, 

sometimes in different houses

ones with the same signs of dysfunction.

 

I stop myself and remember

that all of this is temporary

but I still cry about it

and paint about it 

and mould it into different ways that I can understand.

 

It doesn’t take away the feeling,

but it’s the least I could do.