h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

HELEN'S FUNERAL

(Helen, aged 50, was prescribed Interferon for hepatitis C,
despite a history of severe depressive episodes. It probably
led to her suicide. Her body was found, after a month at sea,
on the Isle of Man. Her funeral was last Saturday.)

Don't say, "He went the way he wanted to,"
Or, "He had a good innings, didn't he?"
The last thing I want to hear, if I hear,
Is cozy platitudes. I'll cease to be,
And that which you knew well will not be here
To challenge you. The trouble being dead
Is that you can't reply for good or ill,
And the living get to choose what is said,
Or worse, left unsaid at your funeral.

Who chose the hymns for Helen's final rites?
Who thought of "All things bright and beautiful?"
She drowned herself. She challenges our light
With the dark edge of her sharp clarity?
Or did she just fall into an abyss,
Tripped up by the lethal disparity
Between sweet belief and the toxic kiss
Of arrogant medical certainty?

I see her clearly, smiling broadly still,
And happy, though I didn't know her well.
At last she chose to swim out into death.
Did the drug drive her down the cold green swell
Suck out her soul and inundate her breath?
She'll live, remembered. Bright and beautiful.

Speak of me and do not cry,
Say only truth,
No need to lie,

Tell them how I made you sad,
Made you laugh,
And drove you mad.

Stupid things that I would do,
And unspoken things,
Just for you.

Speak proudly of the things I did,
The heights I reached,
And the mistakes I hid.

Speak truly of me and you will find,
I have not gone,
Nor left you behind.

I am here in your memory,
Always with you,
So speak of me.

Blessings,
Matholwch /|\.

Thank you both, Abbi and Math. It's funny how it's the hard times that so often bring out the poetry, as Ben has often said. So I wrote another poem this morning, about parting, as that is what is uppermost in my life just now. It looks like being a very rough ride indeed. I'll post it as a journal entry.