Daffodils
The day Anthony Minghella died
I stitched myself into a chair to watch Truly, Madly, Deeply
on repeat – with the grainy softness of video
and a supply of cotton hankies.
My empathy always with Nina, hurting so hard
she couldn't let go, and no one knowing the right thing to say.
Jamie's ghost wasn't enough. He came back in the wrong way,
as ghosts are prone to do, with his mess and musty smell.
I picked a bunch of daffodils to remember Minghella,
brought them inside to set centre table,
glad it wasn't summer with roses and carnations.
Almost eight years later,
the car radio told me Alan Rickman had died.
I pulled off the road, longing to hear Jamie's ghost,
maybe a favourite line from Truly, Madly, Deeply.
Nothing.
I thought, no one dies properly.
I picked a bunch of daffodils to remember Rickman,
brought them inside to set centre table,
glad it wasn't summer with roses and carnations.
I stitched myself into a chair to watch Truly, Madly, Deeply
on repeat – with the grainy softness of video
and a supply of cotton hankies.
My empathy always with Nina, hurting so hard
she couldn't let go, and no one knowing the right thing to say.
Jamie's ghost wasn't enough. He came back in the wrong way,
as ghosts are prone to do, with his mess and musty smell.
I picked a bunch of daffodils to remember Minghella,
brought them inside to set centre table,
glad it wasn't summer with roses and carnations.
Almost eight years later,
the car radio told me Alan Rickman had died.
I pulled off the road, longing to hear Jamie's ghost,
maybe a favourite line from Truly, Madly, Deeply.
Nothing.
I thought, no one dies properly.
I picked a bunch of daffodils to remember Rickman,
brought them inside to set centre table,
glad it wasn't summer with roses and carnations.