I wrote this while we held our not nearly long enough vigil for Grim. It occurs to me that reposting it for this time of year may be appropriate, and so I am.
Death sits here
At our table, served tea and wine and water in our mugs.
He hangs his wide-brimmed hat by the door, places his cloak with our coats in the closet
kicks the mud from his well-worn boots and leans his staff by the door, next to Beth’s.
Our home is as much his as it is our own
We mark our calendar by this mask of the Masked One
When death howls, and when it rages,
when it whispers, and when it embraces
We are not a life at any cost family
We do not recognize death as The End.
Our family is filled with spirits of those once-incarnate
I’ve been haunted by the cries of cats who no longer have throats to voice those trills and chirps
We’ve stepped in well-placed puddles of phantom pee, given to us by a puckish once-Pomeranian
I have warm, happy conversations…
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