Writers 
Because the phone still knows his number
and my thumb still reaches for it.
Because there was a laugh
that only he understood,
and now it has no ears to land in.
Because we grew up in each other’s stories,
sharing bad jobs and good luck,
secrets kept like coins in a jar.
Now someone has taken the jar
and left the rattle in my chest.
Because on ordinary Tuesdays
he would send a message about nothing,
a joke, a song, a photograph of rain,
and nothing was the whole point.
Now the nothing is gone,
and I did not know it was holding up the sky.
Because the grown-up face is a tired house
where tears are kept in the back room,
behind the bills, the deadlines,
the careful words we practise at the door.
A funeral is the day
the door finally opens.
Because we are taught to be strong,
to nod, to say “he’s in a better place,”
to hold the casserole and the casket handle
and keep our voices level.
But the body has its own language,
and it speaks in salt.
Because love, once given,
does not know how to stop.
It looks for the old address,
finds the silence there,
and comes home through the eyes.
Because to be an adult
is to learn how fragile the table is,
to count the empty chairs,
to say a name a little softer now,
and to cry anyway,
over the years we thought we had,
over the laughter we still carry,
over the friend who taught us
how to be loved.
