A funeral with jeans on,
No mourning gown, not even in black.
In the same old chair, in the same old room.
A funeral with slippers on,
I could have sipped a cup of coffee
Nobody would know, Grandma would approve.
A funeral with connections
Broadcast to every country on Earth
But without a crowd, Grandma would have scoffed.
A funeral without song.
My voice was silenced behind a screen,
In-person mourners sat muffled by masks.
A funeral without expectation.
Emotions both stifled and enhanced
In the quiet of half heard home-schooling.
A funeral without celebration.
No wake, no food, no drink, no sharing,
None of Grandma’s famous recipes.
A funeral without COVID,
Not a mention of the pandemic,
The reason I’m here and also not here.
A funeral with COVID,
Died with COVID, She died with COVID,
We live with COVID, or try to at least.
I attended a funeral today, but I didn’t go to one.
I’m a busy mum of two, juggling enforced home-schooling with
completing a PhD. My research investigates the effects of physical
health on how people with severe mental illness use healthcare.
Why I wrote this piece: I like to use poetry and prose to reflect
feelings I don’t otherwise express.