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To My Sister

By Gabi Coatsworth

They told me there was an end to every pain
They insisted on it, the grief counselors
But no-one can structure my sorrow
I have to sculpt that piece of flint myself

Years later, sudden and sharp – a chiselled arrowhead -
the longing for you takes me by surprise.

I’ve done enough, I want to tell you -
I’ve done my best with the son you left behind
Why can’t you take over, now?
Because you’re dead, I scream into the silence
and one day, your son will be as old as you, then older.

But when I see our son I remember how you were:
the way he scowls when I call him on something
the rueful look he has when I catch him out
his helpless laughter when I crack him up
the way he stands, his back curved, weight on one leg.
It’s you -
And it’s not.

My sculpture is still made of sorrow’s stone
but the edges are a little smoother, softer, now.