The day of your funeral,
a strangeness clung to us all,
like woodsmoke in our hair
or a whiff of other people’s fabric conditioner.

That evening, putting clean clothes in a drawer,
I saw a loose cotton thread
and I did not recognise it for the everyday thing it was
but recoiled, horrified.

The day of your funeral,
objects were momentarily transformed into more that themselves
and a strangeness clung to us like perfume.

I don’t know what it means.
I’m just telling you how it was.