My Memoir

My Memoir
by me(whatever)

no words
come from the mouth of the dead.

Though their face is the same,
though their nose is the same bulbous shape,
they will not wake up.

At his funeral,
watching from behind a tree.
A little group of relatives
singing songs like they were a lullaby.

No one cries;
it was an expected.
And everyone smiles at a family gathering.

I can look around at the stones,
the stones engraved with lost lives.
More and more people I will never know.
A sea.

Within this group I can see,
how I do not belong here.
and so I asked myself the question:
what was I doing here?

But I already knew the answer,
because you see.
A few years ago when he was still healthy
he gave my little brother and I a bunch of stuffed animals.
still smelling like smoke.

My mother told me,
when I was a little girl and even sulkier than I am now.
That at another family gathering,
hiding away by myself as usual.
she wondered at me.

But he saw;
"Just a loner, like me,"
he said.

It feels like the people who understand me
are disappearing one by one.