I’ve brought Mam and Dad to visit Anne Maria’s grave any time I could. I would get out with Mam and spend some time remembering, perhaps praying, tidying and talking quietly.
All the while Dad would sit in the car. We could park beside the grave and getting out is now too awkward for him. Every time as we pull away, I notice him, almost imperceptibly, privately, waving goodbye. Mam sits in the back, tears in her eyes. We drive away in silence.
I wrote this short poem after a visit last January, shortly after Anne Maria’s first anniversary.
With the gentlest movement of his hand,
Dad waves goodbye as we pull away
From your grave.