People will praise you with words they could not part with in the days you breathed,
their breath, catching in their throats,
chaotic crying becomes heartfelt reminiscing,
and then, back again.
Grief, goes around and around, like a fairground ride or a repetitive pop song,
spreading like a sweet sickness,
because it feels good to cry.
You will grow,
shooting from the still earth,
disturbing the dirt and towering above the sun,
built up by tearful tributes and long lost memories,
painted on the minds of people who haven’t seen you in months,
projected on the walls of the town square,
etched into the stone of a society that didn’t much understand you.
Your memory will be a blessing,
you will rest, peacefully, we all assume,
everyone will be sorry, but never sure what they’re sorry for,
but what will you be doing?
Where do you go?
What do you think of us?
Sincerely, Jennifer x 
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