Living In The Heart's Memory

A gentle touch upon the forearm with a hand, gloved or warm with life, outside the church door; turning away from the open grave; by that concrete place where they lay the floral tributes by the cemetery chapel; or later, as you hand the food around; a gentle touch upon the forearm or a hand sought for to squeeze and hold; or man to man, they favour a shoulder briefly gripped, as if that’s the pressure point where empathetic camaraderie should be applied; the single sentence of consolation, sometimes so well rehearsed, it comes out awkwardly – ‘she’ll be much missed…’ ‘you have so many memories…’ ‘he’ll always be there in our hearts…’ ‘if there’s anything…’ they’ve been through this, themselves, or fear the time they shall – …‘words must be said, but yet there are no words for this; accept then, these few words in lieu of that deep silence which is itself in lieu of words…’ * * * measured, immutable, as precise as any equation of the calculated world, the heart’s memories: every moment that our heart in many years opened to them, the heart has stored. We know the mind can span the imagined world – from travel brochures to the thought of heaven; yet we forget that greater still, the heart is vast – there’s all the room for them to live on there, sustained by every moment of love freely given; for the whole creation is one single act of love. [written for a bereavement website]