'Death Creeps Ever Closer' by Jan Erskine-Power

I remember next-door's curtains closed for days, resisting sunshine and laughter as I played outside.

I remember the void in my Nanna’s kitchen and the absence of coconut-dusted Jamborees in her neglected biscuit barrel.

I remember my Mum’s erratic, tearful drive home from Granddad’s funeral where she’d argued over who should travel in the funeral car and that black was the proper colour of respect.

I remember shying away from the unexpected glimpse of your Granddad’s powdered nose peeking from the open casket, feeling an imposter with my unsynchronized standing, kneeling and miming to unknown hymns.

I remember my indignation at your Mum’s hair brushed flat and lifeless into a style she would have hated in the soulless side room, her smile trapped in a glass.

I remember helping you try to fit your Dad’s life and anecdotes into so few words spoken by a collared stranger, whilst keeping his gold-digging girlfriend and your sisters at least a handbag swing apart.

I remember being grateful my Dad hung on until we got there, through floods and Christmas shopping traffic, yet being relieved that he didn’t manage to open his eyes as he released his final breath.

I don’t remember agreeing to let you go first.