I'm open with my children
About what of me I'd want preserved
After losing my best friend and witnessing the dishonour
Of not being remembered as she deserved.
Her funeral didn't do anything but confirm to us, her chosen family,
That her biological one didn't know her, before her silent fall.
She wasn't buried how she'd wanted, not her chosen clothes or high-heeled shoes. No reciting her favourite poems, all out of ignorance. Meanwhile of these wishes, we knew them all.
The songs they played meant nothing to her as a person.
It was one so predictable, and impersonal. Popularised by a character's death a stupid TV show!
They didn't give her the time of day in life to be able to truly do her justice.
They didn't ask those of us who would know.
They didn't know her passions, her struggles, her dreams.
They weren't the ones who saw her cry in person, listen to her voice for hours, or her many helpless screams.
They didn't know her talents, her abilities or her personality.
They instead closed the curtain on her life with clichés and their own interests,
No semblance of how to honour her mortality.
I sadly know all to well myself
What it's like to have a family that don't take the time to fully see me.
So although it's grim, I have made my wishes clear to my children.
Some by discussions I've had, some by directions to playlists and items, some written down formally.
Even then though, there'll always be parts of me that I'll never likely get a chance to tell or explain,
But then perhaps it's not necessary to explain all of our lives, or parts of our history.
So long as my children know they were my world, my rock, my purpose, and the best thing that ever happened,
Then I'm prepared to allow some parts to remain a mystery.