Aunty Dill, you've gone,
You stopped breathing,
Alone.
You are a strong trunk,
And you had the courage
Even to leave us.
I wonder,
Why didn’t I ask you everything?
The details of how your parents met...
What was your life like?
The mischief of Mary?
You managed to tell me
That to her,
You were her property,
So much so that she wanted to sleep with you and Uncle Ken
When you got married.
Surely your stories were endless.
I didn’t ask you,
What did Ian and Lee play
In that small yard
Of your humble home?
You were what we had left of Mary,
Now we feel
That both of you rest together.
Mary must be celebrating that you’ve joined her
For company.
You are so strong,
That you resisted every trial
And every treatment.
You let go,
To slowly depart
At the precise moment
That God decided.
I feel so sad
For not having lived more
By your side.
For not having called you more
On the phone,
For not having gone more often to your little house
To visit you.
We can always do more...
And the daily grind consumes us.
I don’t imagine you as a spirit yet.
I see you there sitting,
With the apron you wear,
That Welsh apron that I’ve only seen
On you.
I remember a pink one and a blue one.
I’m left feeling very sad,
My little old lady,
Rag doll.
You never complained,
Even though you were “pain”
From all your falls.
Your little doll-like feet
That needed special shoes.
We talked about tramadol,
To see who took more.
You never complained,
Your phrase was “I am all right,”
Everything was always fine.
I know you were hard on Uncle Ken,
We always treat the ones we love most the worst…
Though I don’t justify it.
Aunty Dill,
You remind me
That we are not just a body,
But as a body, I loved you.
You take with you
All the stories of the Owens...
Our soul feels empty of them.
I know you were very sick,
But I can’t imagine you with God just yet.
I’m sad, Aunty Dill,
I only knew you alive,
And that’s how you remain within me.
