Today’s prompt called for a “how I’ll be remembered” poem. I found it incredibly hard, and I’m not even sure what I wrote answers the prompt, but it is an exercise I’d like to come back to.

24.

If, in the liminal space between here and there (if there is a there), I have a choice, I think I’ll go to my funeral. I’ll stand at the back, maybe naked as the day I was born, or wearing whatever I died in. But if I have a choice in that too, I’ll be in my favourite grey sweater and the best fitting pair of jeans. Tall black boots, and dangly earrings. I won’t count heads, or make note of anyone absent, and I won’t look for tears, drooped shoulders — outward signs of heavy hearts. I’ve already learned grief is immeasurable. Invisible. But I will listen. Not for the hope of praise or plaudits. But for memories, I’ve either forgotten or never realized I’d been a part of. For the gift of meeting a self I never even knew existed.