Don’t Forget Us When

When you’re gone I picture ring donuts with full sugar crusting. I imagine scooping jam from jars with tea stained spoons and chocolate coins at Christmas, the metal circles noisy in my hands, drawing attention to fingers meant for particular purposes.

My Mum says you can spend forever wondering what happened to someone, feeling guilt over words, imagining what they’re doing. That she’s been preoccupied by someone’s eyes for thirty years only to find out they died already. Only to find out they’re dead.


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