Under a thistle sky

Death came walking down the road,

to a home in Scotland.

To the home of my sister~in ~law to be precise.

Who is very close to my heart.

It's hard to think how to write eloquently

about death.

What can be said about tears and loss and

endings that hasn't already been said?

Or written about for that matter.

The matter is,

for Deborah, death came

walking down the road.

To collect her father.

Deborah and Oliver had * just* arrived on their holiday,

and on the second day of it,

had to fly home.

Yesterday, Oliver showed us a picture of Deborah

lying asleep on her daddy's bed.

Her face,

peaceful in sleep, exhausted.

Later that day we sat out in the garden

that Robin loved so much.

On the bench he made by hand.

Deborah and I watched the little birdies.

We listened and were comfortable with the silence.

It sat easily,

on  grief soaked shoulders.

Then , quietly~

Deborah  spoke.

Her voice,

gentle,

like morning.

* I just can't imagine never hearing his voice again Anna.*

*I know, Deborah,* I said.

*I know.*

I reached out,

and covered her hand with mine.

Sometimes,

words just can't be found.

When death comes walking down the road.



( All names of the people I've written about today have
been changed to protect their identities. )