Not an Elegy
Trigger warning - death and funerals
“She was always smiling,”
Someone murmurs,
Eyes glossy as they clutch
A bouquet that’s already wilting.
I’ve only seen her smile
In her wedding photos,
Or when she was speaking to a patient,
Kindness scripted in her tone.
Whispers spread like ripples:
“She was so kind,” “so graceful,”
Like a river flowing smooth,
No stone to stir the current.
But I remember something else—
The late nights,
When she sat on the couch,
Fingers trembling,
Gripping a glass she never finished,
Staring at the wall as if it owed her answers.
“She was there for everyone,”
Someone says, voice quivering,
As if trying to convince themselves.
I remember her absence,
When I needed her most,
The hollow nod she gave,
Eyes already elsewhere.
They praise her kindness,
But forget the little things—
The rolled eyes when asked for help,
The tight nod,
A silent “yes” she didn’t mean.
“She gave her all,”
Someone says, and I almost laugh.
Who really gives their all?
Maybe she did,
That is why she had nothing left for us.
I remember how she’d disappear
Into her office,
Slamming drawers,
Pretending to be busy
So she didn’t have to face
What she was running from.
“She was an angel,”
Someone whispers,
And I wonder,
Which angels muffled pillows
Over faces?
Which version of her do they remember—
The one who could barely see other’s pain,
Or the one who’d burn to ash
If she stepped into a church?
And now I look for smoke rising.
“She had a heart of gold,”
Someone chokes out,
Eyes darting around the room
As though the truth is hiding
Beneath the chairs,
Between the flowers.
Though I agree.
I remember her solid and cold,
How she could stand next to you
And still make you feel
Like a stranger.
We didn’t deserve it.
But, here we gather to mourn
The saint she never was,
To sing her praises
Like a melody we never knew how to hum.
If she were alive,
She would’ve sung it better than the choir,
Played the piano too,
Critiqued on the decor,
And ordered me to look more distraught.
But none of that matters now.
So here’s to the quiet saint,
The one who never asked for anything,
Except to be seen as perfect,
And she pulled it off
Until the very end.
Good for her!
Bring the award for this philanthropist
Or reserve six feet for her
In the Elysian fields.
Rest in peace--
We say goodbye
To the woman
We wanted her to be.
I hope the afterlife brings you ease.
@azurePond I guess we're all stories right.. half of it made of what we choose to show and half of it what people want to see. It doesn't matter in the end but it still hurts to know the truth, to have been part of something and to watch silently while others spin a tale from the pieces they got to see.
If this is personal, I hope you find peace<3 Thanks for sharing.
@azurePond
Another very great piece of first person narration. The bitterness and incredulity does not rebuff but rather invites sympathy and a sense of relatable familiarity. I really appreciate how the story unfolds like a pages being turned in a book of condolences, each leaf revealing new platitudes and counterpoints from memory. Even the summation has a beautiful paradoxical feel to it, as we see through the narrators eyes the unjust images cast by the insincere or just unknowing, and we feel compelled to trust the narrator as the voice behind the curtain. Yet we are left at the very end with a line we cannot be sure is a genuine hope, a symbolic gesture of forgiveness, or a bitter and maybe ironic platitude of their own to sign off the poem. Awesome!
