Letters In Our Heads

An empty casket,
Full to the brim with memories,
Draws the eyes of many,
And the hands of many more.
In silence we sift through faded photos,
Letters we wrote, only in our heads,
And words we spoke into jars,
Before we sealed them up and,
Tossed them too, into the casket.
Maybe I–maybe we–should be sad.
But this,
This is not a funeral for mourning death.
This is a day for celebrating life.
No.
No, we will not forget,
Not today. Not tomorrow.
For each of us will take a photo,
Or a letter,
Or a jar,
And tuck it away,
Across the threshold of our hearts,
Each our own part of the puzzle.
Our puzzle.
And we alone do not feel fear,
For we know the truth of death.
Isn’t it death,
Who hides in dark corners?
Who is cunning and rash?
We stride onto our lit streets with pride,
And boastfulness on our chests.
Death crouches and waits.
And maybe death is wise.
But maybe death is also…
Afraid.
Nothing is permanent.
Death has taught us that.
But if nothing is permanent,
Then death itself must end.