Inheritance- by greg shearer

I inherited from you
A breast so full of burden,
This heart you had,
Half drowned in cheap drink
Mottled from cigarette ash,
Wholly stained by indigo bruises
And stitched with self inflicted scars
Yet, still it beats on.

You lay to be swallowed up 
By cold earth and freakish things
That feast on flesh and shun light,
We stood around a man made gullet
Waiting to be swallowed up by grief
That never came,
We had mourned you long before this.

Not that we didn’t weep or care
We did, more than you knew
But like saying goodbye 
To lost weight
That was part of us once,
We were glad to see you go.

Not you, the burden 
Shaped like the man you had become,
Who called me by my fathers name
Who told his son to get to fuck
Who asked everyday,
Where Betty was.

Even though he had held
Her hand as she slipped
Beyond the gentle touch of his fingertips
Like a snowflake held in warm hands.

She so precious, so delicate, so pristine white
The way I remember her hair to be
Melted and passed into memory.

And memories now elusive mysteries
A vague mist of recall and cigarette smoke
Knowing what dementia is,
I still say you went mad with grief.

After a time, one morning I awoke
And felt something as
Dawn broke back the shadow, 
Not for first or second time,
The world stirred again.

Sunshine yellow warmth crept
Across this weary sons’ skin
Until the black blues pain
Finally faded.

That feeling you never came to know.
It was healing.