Remembering the Dead

It's the night of Samhain

here in the Southern

half of the world.

I find photos

of my dear dead,

going through old albums.

Two were my mother's,

which I inherited; the rest

cover most of my life …

most of my loves —

but there are two faces missing.

I scrabble through shelves and drawers.

A whole album, I realise

has been mislaid.

The big one with the red cover.

In that, my children were little

and there were many shots

of their handsome father

(my second husband,

the one I had the longest,

who died in January '95).

It was the only place I kept 

pictures of him. But he was a friend 

and should be honoured.

And my beautiful Nana,

who died when I was four —

where is she?

She hated being photographed.

So the family had only one:

official, serious, in her nurse's uniform.

I've put my copy somewhere safe. 

Too safe, and now I can't 

discover the hiding-place.

Eventually I call it a day —

late into the night — and go to bed

after finally casting circle.

I tell the Listeners 

what I choose to discard 

at this time, from my life,

and what I choose 
to bring in. (Life, and all

its varied memories.)

Then I dream all night

of old homes, old dramas,

ghosts who demand their due.

When I wake, I see

it rained while I slept; the sky

is still grey, the sun

struggles through cloud,

and Samhain leaves me a task:

write the stories.

April Poem A Day Challenge, day 30: calling it a day