it is complicated
to talk about people
without thinking of who they were
to you and to other people
and even more so
when you live amongst them
and see them change over the years
ushering in the disgrace of old age and all the
banal vices
it is complicated to admit
how much you hate them
even if it is not possible to have a life
without them getting on your nerves
it is a trip
to drink with them
and abuse
their ancestors
and have them be furious at you
maybe break the odd beer bottle on your head
and then not make up
try to forget them for a couple of years
it is a disappointment
to hear the news of their passing
alone
in the company of ghosts,
dusty furniture and torn curtains
wrapped in a white sheet
wetting their bed
in the final indignity of death
it is complicated
to hate them
to pity them
when they are not around anymore
and there is no one to drink with anymore
you ultimately realize that
this is how you are going to go too
alone
wrapped in a bed sheet
and in the company of white shadows.
