You are the chain of love.
The love vine,
the connector; a creeper
hanging yourself around our necks
as you rise.

I

In spirit and in dreams I rise to you.
No longer lateral,
weighted
you are now upright
just above me –
floating, lingering
behind me –
flowing through the etheric realm.

I light a candle and prepare your space,
filling water in the glasses,
cutting fresh white frangipanis and other fragrant buddings.
I adorn your area
and call to you with the toll of a bell.

It is Thursday and the veil is thinning,
the air cool and your mark everywhere.

The rum is sitting at the bottom of the glass, and I hear you laugh.
And even though I still have trouble witnessing and believing,
I feel you through everything around me.

II

I keep seeing you:
in water,
along the cemetery walls
and in mounds of holy memory.

On the coast of Senegal
you shine bright in a dirt patch.
Off-road, you cling to other trees, ascending to shine your pink glory.

In Bank Hall, you peak over the raw concrete kitchen wall
as if to say “hello, daughter.”
At home, you cover your own grave with blooms so thick that the carpet welcomes mummy and I every December.
I pull to relieve the concrete of the grave, and the tendrils fight back,
warding off intruders.

III

After all, this was your favourite bloom.
It makes sense your bones would be covered with this vine of love,
which has found a home in many of our islands.

You cover the coffin.
You cover the pit.
You cover our tired eyes,
our wailing and longing hearts
with your curious winding and spiralling.

You are not a weed.
You are not invasive.
We just can’t see your magic and medicine;
nothing treacherous is in your spirit.

You are counsellor, a reminder,
a healer, balm for the broken.

You are the chain of love.
The love vine,
the connector; a creeper
hanging yourself around our necks
as you rise.

Rise in glory,
flittering in our vision,
making our Thursdays bearable again.