Altared

I’d written your eulogy.

When the call came to be the one

to stand at the altar

I was ready.

I would speak for us all

(the now-six of us)

and wrote that speech

confident and sure

of my ability to do so.

After all, I'd spoken to thousands.

Stood in the European Parliament

at the United Nations

and conferences since in

Beijing and Moscow and Dubai.

I had the quotes chosen,

the reflections underlined,

the anecdotes polished and true.

 

And then they told me what they wanted,

my mother and my siblings;

and it was perhaps

less eloquent than mine,

less well-turned than mine…

and that was what I did.

Read their words

(not mine)

recognising that I hadn't been chosen for my eloquence

but because I might be trusted to speak of you

without breaking into tears.

 

And how should I take that even now?

The realisation that they thought me

sufficiently insulated by my ego

to speak on their behalf

without the tears they'd have been helpless to prevent?

 

Every talent masks a failing,

every strength a void -

and funerals serve to bury many things

worth consigning to the dust,

however painful the loss.