Gifts for the dying recommend foot cream.
But I bought you a butter dish.
There was comfort in butter,
soft but solid, cradled in utilitarian china.
We tried to add weight to your thin frame,
ate mash and hot cross buns in bed,
stayed under covers, left the curtains drawn,
licked knives, brushed crumbs from dirty sheets.
The cost of your new glasses snagged
as we made calculations of life afterwards.
We loved like strangers, hiding
mutual disappointments in silence.
Now I regret the longevity of that gift,
its white cow still innocently grazing on top.
I leave it clean and empty by the bread bin.
Sometimes I lift and replace the lid.
First published in Raceme April 2023