Tonight and yesterday

Tonight we will eat and drink

to remember and honour,

kissing each other on the cheek,

checking in my eyes

to see if I'm OK.

We'll make good conversation

and admire the children,

and catch glimpses of another face in theirs

and wish, wish that there was

another chair full.

How different to the other kind

of remembering, just yesterday,

stretched out flat

on a rectangle piece of grass

dropping tears down to bones,

cracking the blue sky

with the sound of a pain

that time doesn't take,

and asking him to make sure

that he's the first one there to meet me

when I arrive.