Pickled grief

A dusty jar, on a high shelf,

fluorescent lights making it worse.

Pickled herring. A small, grey self

suspended in cloudy brine, a curse

of memory. My uncle loved that stuff,

the smell of vinegar and fish,

when he was alive, it was enough

to make me gag, to wish

he'd eaten anything else. Now, though,

the sight of it, sitting there bland,

a hollow drop, a sudden, slow

pain, a phantom hand.

He's been gone months. The funeral

was dry, polite. No tears then. Just numb.

Now, this jar, this awful meal,

makes my throat close, leaves me dumb.