You transposed, crackled in the crematorium.

Your mother gifted me a box, I thought 

the parts of you that belong to me aren’t in there.

‘No matter where you are, I’ll always be watching

over you’

blasted from the radio, I knew it was 

you show up when I need it most –

a feather on my doorstep,

your initials on a van,

a robin in the garden,

whose berry eyes say I’m still here,

watching, guiding.