Broken Ritual

Nobody comes…
because we don’t invite them

I plan nothing
though…
I buy a new candle.
I go to the flower market.

I lay the flowers out meticulously.
But the ritual has no rules.

I forget what time it is that I am to light the candle.
I light it anyway. It is clumsy.
We three stand around the lit candle and we have nothing to say as we watch the flame dance marking the anniversary of Luke’s last breath.

How should we break this moment?
Do we just return to the TV?

The importance of this ritual is broken in unspoken uncertainty betwixt us.

The candle burns through this night and I sleep on the sofa by it’s light.
I think to myself that I have to fix this pathetic marking of this cataclysmic night.
But how?
Does the ritual require witnesses to give it form and heft?
How can we create something meaningful that doesn’t further burden our heavy load?
I must find a way.

Gidi’s Mamma arrives in the morning without invitation, bearing armfuls of roses, the symbol of my love for Luke, the card inscribed ‘Luke, where the fuck are you?’. Indeed.

She knows this. She is fluent and confident in the fuck-uppery of it all, her empathy and love streams though us, all three of us, maybe all four of us. She is a tonic.

Three weeks ago we gathered at Gidi’s grave with embellished rocks and sprinkled glitter to make the world sparkle. It is glorious in all it’s bittersweetness.
She is better at this.

Another year has passed unceremoniously without Luke.
I note that despite the advice that I give about the importance of ritual, I have failed.
It is to me, a betrayal of Luke.
It must change.

I am numb.
I can find no tears.