Puddles

I love your work Xanthe!

Xanthe: I'm reading this piece at a time in my life, where I feel tons of sadness... reading this poem, is a comfort... the feelings one has towards the tragedy of death and ones passing, is raw emotion and you took those painful memories and penned an elegant, sorrowful piece... I really adore the way you started this out... taking me to your memory at the very start....and the ending... brings such finality... truly a wonderful piece!

It is so emotional!
but perfectly written as always!

There is so much sadness in this poem for someone as young as you to have experienced. In my teens I went to the service but never the graveside...the first graveside I went to was my mothers and..it was my last...

I remember my first funeral:
everyone was either wearing black or white
and I thought it was funny how we could
make a b/w film right then and there.
But the greenest grasses I've ever seen layed beneath our feet, * I think it should be lay here*
and the bluest sky I've seen hung above our heads.
I imagined everyone merging, and everything
would become nothing but a blur of grey.

Lamentations dangled heavily in the air,
and I swear I could have floated forever in its ever-unfolding
oceans. But I didn't know how to swim then
and though I feared not drowning, I feared
getting stuck there at the bottom. I feared it might
suffocate me, and when it does, and I am strangled
and left for dead, who then, would come
back to your grave and mourn til sundown?
Who then, would bring you flowers and clean your stone?
Who would polish it and drive away the children before they carve away your name?

^^
This stanza is all in past tense until you use the word does....I'm not sure if that's intentional but it just throw my personal reading off slightl

You told me you wanted to be remembered.
And I do, I do remember everything.
I remember the bluebells, the white shirt dripping with sweat,
I remember Germaine in black, the ducks and the threes,
the beaten-up maroon car with all its chipped paint that I love,
the truck, the sack, and the water dripping, the smell of plastic.

^^

You have mentioned Germaine in a previous poem so now I'm wondering.....is she/was she a very close family member?

Maybe, like the sun, years would melt away the
memories and I'd walk over the puddles.

I can see myself walking over the puddles.

Yeah...you can jump over them..walk sideways by them but jumping in them is also an option...it just may take some more time....