Grief

What filled me with trepidation
Was that even though I knew Grief was somewhere in my immediate surroundings
The form it would take would always catch me off guard
A formidable shape shifter that Grief is

In the inability to un-pair you from my car’s audio system
Because to un-pair you meant I would no longer see your name beneath mine in blue on the black
background
The irony that the system is called SYNC mocked me no end

In my moonlighting as a metro cop
Literally scrutinizing every 2008 silver Toyota corolla that came into my line of sight
Straining hard to make out the number plate
Knowing, most likely than not, that it wasn’t you
And in the half a percent chance that it was you
The blurred flash of you convinced me that I was doing worthwhile work

In knowing that certain establishments only existed in theory and could no longer be patronised
That I could not bring myself to ever darken the doorstep of the Columbine Mugg and Bean
Because whenever I entered the restaurant 
The staff would acknowledge my presence
Look about me to confirm you were indeed in tow
Ask without inflection 
‘Table for two?’

In keeping your CD collection intact
Hoping that one day I would grow into it
And Jazz would fit me just right
And it would resonate as it had with you
And I would know Kirk Whalum, Andy Narell and Fela Kuti intimately

In getting the few stares when the music played a few decibels too loud
Jarring on the nerves of drivers in hearing range trying to listen to talk radio
I don’t mind the daggers in their eyes
Your notoriety for vibrating the windows of homes four doors down on a Sunday morning is your
legend
I am my mother’s daughter

In being first at the William and Nicol labyrinthine intersection off the N1 on my way to the
mechanic
Where I needed to have a firm grip on my wits and faculties
As so not to waste any green arrows and move swiftly when given the go
Then suddenly, I am unable to make anything out 
Without prompt or warning, tears are tainting my vision the colour of fat free milk
I do not want to wipe the tears away 
To stretch my sleeve over my knuckles and wipe is to admit 
How far I still have to travel in life with Grief riding shotgun.