Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
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Your shoes remain by the door, one lace under the other heel. For weeks I step around them
They asked me to say something. As if the right words exist.
The eulogy is the hardest poem: you must condense a life into minutes, make a room full of crying people laugh at least once.
We signed beneath your photograph, our names suddenly evidence that we had stood in that room.
The first month, I kept calling. Not on purpose.
The first year after someone dies is a minefield of ordinary things. Their coffee mug. Their side of the bed.
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