Organic

Some things in life are organic poems. I don’t need to dissect them in my diary and stitch them up with pretty metaphors, they are born ready to be appreciated.

I wore jeans to the first funeral I ever attended. My grandfather’s. Black jeans and a black jumper, in Italy we don’t dress up for funerals, it wasn’t a celebration. But I did wear something fancy to make peace with the British side of me who demanded I look elegant: A black ribbon.

And a month later, when on his birthday I visited my best friend at her university, I noticed I had packed it in my purse. I pulled it out, held it in my hands and vowed to never wear it again