The frame of the wooden house shook,
It was as if it felt the very pain of the people that gathered within it’s embrace.
The floors creaked,
Crying out endlessly as it attempted to support the weight of them.
I listened to the loud moaning of sorrow as it encompassed the room,
Vacuuming the faint memory of joy, that once lingered.
The pictures were taken down,
His belongings packed hastily in brown boxes,
And his clothes stuffed into garbage bags, were ready to be delivered to charity,
Despite the very attempt to eradicate the memory of his life,
Every inch of this house though stripped of physical reminders,
Held unto his memories,
The good and the bad,
The room in which they wept was where he made his first step,
The one to the back was where he made the last,
The room to the left was where he was born,
And the right was where he died,
The couch they sat on was the one he’d chosen,
But no more would he be able to plunge himself into it’s softness,
The red colour that it boasted no longer represented victory,
It boasted death.
And all that’s left now,
Is a mother with a broken heart,
A twin brother who’s life had fallen apart,
But as we sat submerged in our misery,
Things became abundantly clear,
For we were not merely weeping because a life was taken,
We were weeping because of what we failed to do.
We failed to let him know how much we loved him,
Failed to show how much we cared,
And as throngs of expensive flowers littered his grave,
I couldn’t help but regret. As silly as it may seem, I should have
Bought him something, I should’ve hugged and kissed him.
But my biggest regret is refusing to do all this while he was alive.
And as a tear rolled down my cheek and my heart cried, I vowed
To always give the ones I love, flowers while they’re alive.