Saturday Soup

Eulogy.
For my Grandma.
I miss you.

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This isn’t my first goodbye.
Grandma, do you remember when I was 9?
I sat in my room.
I cried.

Grandma, do you remember after school?
Do you remember Saturdays too?
Just me, you, Nicholas and Saturday soup

Saturday soup was like sunshine,
it was like love,
if I even know what love is.
It was the taste of the Caribbean,
The roots you planted and fed.

Now your gone,
Saturday soup no longer taste like sunshine but it tastes like rain.
It’s tastes like your old hat, your smile, your laugh and pain.
It tastes like church on a Sunday morning and you putting us to bed at night.
It’s tastes like missing you and wanting you back and asking him why.

Grandma, do you remember when I was 13?
You picked a grapefruit from the tree,
We spoke,
We laughed,
We hugged.
almost reminded me of when me, you and Nicholas had Saturday soup.

I never knew that would be the last time seeing you,
Did you know grapefruit trees died Grandma?
Not long after you went too.

Now, I’m not a big believer
But for you,
I hope heaven is a garden made specifically for you,
I hope it has loads of grapefruit trees and a kitchen to make soup,
I hope it’s as beautiful as you,
I hope he gave you a warm welcome,
I hope you know that all has been forgiven,
I hope it was all you prayed for and more.
I pray your watching,
I pray you can see how much we miss you already,
I pray you miss us too.

Grandma, do you remember when I was 19?
that’s when we lost you.
and even though its hard to bear
And even though I wish you well up there
I still hope I walk into the kitchen
And I see you there,
with a pot on the fire,
And spoon in your hand,
just like when it was just me, you, Nicholas and Saturday soup.

Rest Easy, we love you.

The Platonic Breakup

“He’s my brother. And not by something as accidental as blood… by something much stronger. By choice.” —Wolfgang (Sense8)

No one talks about a friendship ending.

No one talks about how its feels to lose a friend.

It might sound dramatic, a bit silly, stupid even. But think about it… how does it feel when you to lose someone that was so close to you? someone who almost felt like family? someone you thought was going to be there for all of your achievements and you for theirs? someone that you’ve known for years and was convinced they would be there for many more?

I was watching Sabrina Benaim spoken word poem called “On Platonic Love Being a Real Thing”. Contemplating what she meant, and how the universe somehow knew that I needed to watch that video at this very moment in time. Where I was starting to lose faith that people knew what true friendship meant. That I even knew what true friendship meant.

There is such heavy importance on when you breakup with your significant other. But everyone seems to dismiss the importance of platonic relationships. How they shape your views on relationships altogether. How they affect the way you love. How they affect the way you view other people. How it feels to breakup.

I’ve experienced many platonic breakups. It feels as if the older I get, the more painful they become. The more aware I become on how much I care about the people closest to me. Like any normal breakup, you consider why the other person doesn’t care as much as you do. Even though you instigated the breakup because you no longer felt cared for, listened to or respected. You thought… at least they would fight. To then come to the realisation that not everyone has your heart and not everyone deserves a space in there either.

How to deal with a platonic breakup is to allow yourself to feel hurt. Allow yourself to reminiscence. Allow yourself to be grateful. Allow yourself to stop being angry at how it all ended. Remind yourself that there are people out there that know and understand the true meaning of friendship. Remember that you don’t always need answers, sometimes it better to not know why.

Most importantly, you have learnt something. You have gained knowledge. You have grown and maybe the breakup was a message from the universe to remind you to trust yourself. To never second guess your choices. To remind you not to love less, but to love wisely.

To ensure that you will always value, love and care for the ones that stayed. Even when they didn’t have to.

 

Once a Home.

a poem.

a breakup leads to a broken home.

where the hurt resides and survives

not matter how hard you try to leave it behind.

I just find it difficult to say goodbye.

 

I know this is the time.

To switch off the lights in the house we once kept alive.

I was the only one still paying for the light.

while you were standing outside,

busy admiring the house on the other side.

No matter how hard you try,

to keep food in the fridge,

the house clean and warm,

the garden full of life.

You can’t stop the power going off,

the food reaching its best before date,

the house collecting cobwebs,

the garden slowing deteriorating.

You can’t stop the love from dying,

even if the love is still there, hiding, inside.

 

I want to destroy the house we built.

Rip it apart, brick by fucking brick.

Set it on fire and watch everything I love and hate burn.

But I decided.

To let the house stand until it falls.

To let the paint strip itself,

to let the cabinets get all dusty.

The house is too valuable to destroy.

I still want to walk around sometimes and reminisce about the good times.

 

But at the end of the day,

I’ll pick up my bag,

put on my hat,

walk away with my head held high, and a smile on my face.

Knowing that one day,

I’ll stop visiting

and never open that door again.

 

Writers Disease.

a poem.

recently I lost the will to write.

the words that once flowed like water,

no longer seem to flow from my mind.

I contemplated,

maybe this is the last ever time,

that I will be able to paint beautiful pictures with the words I write.

Is this disease curable, doctor?

Is there anyway to save me?

I feel like I’m going insane,

The words I try to write no longer translate,

my mind a black abyss the words just cant seem to escape

is there anyway to take this pain away?

I remember people asking why I write

In response I wrote a sea full of poems and stories

eyes blazing, pen scratching,

now I can no longer answer that question.

Why didn’t anyone tell me doctor?

this disease is more than my pen being unable to hit the paper

its more than my mind drawing up blanks

its more than the burning desire to rip every piece of paper to shreds

its being stuck in limbo,

its being stripped, naked with no where to hide,

help me. help me. help me.

why wont you help me?

you told me it would only last a week and now its a year and I still can’t seem to move this block.

I can’t seem destroy this block

this mental block

this disease.

I screamed. I screamed. I screamed.

and all he had to say to me and all he ever said was,

time.