The glove box.

So she is gone,
So the moment is over,
Our faces, sewn up,
As stitched as our words,
As tailored with patches,
That conceal rips,
Rips that will eventually,
Stretch the new borders of their searching extremities,
Hidden rips,
We stand about, heads low,
Hog-tied hands on our hips,
In forced conversation,
Which keeps struggling back to the surface,
For air.

This car, we surround, is the last nail in the coffin,
The final purge,
My father's finally cleansed his house,
All visual representations,
Of her,
Are gone,
Or at least they will be,
When my sister drives off in it.

It will no longer be,
The marble that tips,
the see-saw,
Grief sits alone,
Weighing twenty stone,
But will not pick its ass off the floor.
Not if he can help it.

And just when it seems you are gone,
When we are pretending,
That the reason we are there,
Is actually this car,
And not your death,
Not his unfaceable grief,

An afterthought,
A by the way,
He leans in,
And flips the catch,
On the glove box,

And out tumbles,
Comically spring loaded,
Your fur trimmed hat,
Your scarf,
Your gloves,

We gasp,

And though the emotion,
Is stamped on, reclaimed,
Stuffed back, hurriedly,
Like a child clamps its hand on its mouth,
After the forbidden words have escaped,
It can not be anything but acknowledged,

And though it is not referred to,
And it it's heartbreaking to see my fathers face so nearly crack,

Like a fart in a lift,
An elephant in a room,
We all know,
That you've been there,
And though my family are reined,
And though the tears were restrained,
The smallest trace
 Of a smile on my face,
 Is not.

I love this fragile painful truth.
Like a daisy breaking the pavement.
You wont be denied.