By Gigi Rice

 

My Dearest Readers, 

 

Life is short. As I’m sure many of you have become acquainted with this frequently forgotten fact, the truth of it’s matter lands upon my doorstep once again. 

This following post is for my Granny. Having escaped the Russians invading Poland in the second world war she came to England and met my Grandad. As I lie here knowing that she is about to pass, I decided to say goodbye in my own way. A poem/tribute. I’m not sure which it is. Yet that is the most marvellous thing about writing, my dear Readers. There really are no rules. 

And the same applies to this strange thing we call Life and advertising. Do what you want, what you like and love because “The race is long, and in the end, it’s only with yourself”- Thanks Baz Luhrmann. 

I really wish D and AD internal hand in deadline was not this week. 

But like all whom have gone before me, I raise my glass, I raise my chin and we soldier on. 

So, my Dear Reader, I implore you to read further and remember all those who went before you. 

Lots of love forever, 

Gigi 

 

When You Go. 

 

When you go, 

the clock will skip a solitary tick. 

The dogs will find themselves in the middle of an oversized yawn, unable to concentrate on the sounds that go bump in the night. 

The Forget-Me-Not’s smile at the Lavender. 

I’ll be off somewhere with a busy mind. 

When you go, 

Tomorrow and tomorrow cancel another gig. 

Your tailwind flies underneath closed doors and dust bunnies take flight. 

A doorlock clicks like a trigger. 

And a cocoon is left vacant. 

When you go, 

The final breath gets caught in a dream jar. 

The baby shakes his rattle and Mother shushes him, afraid of waking up the neighbours. 

The cable cars come into the highest station. 

And a jar of jam finally goes off. 

When you go, 

The olive slow dances in the Martini. 

Peter Pan has a single foot on the windowsill and a hand stretching back.

The sink drips and waters the drain daisy. 

A last crumble of Berlin Wall breaks away. 

When you go, 

Two corners of a fitted sheet ping from their duty. 

The chocolatier momentarily forgets the use of a Bain Marie.

Hands poise to play the piano. 

A lover in Paris knocks over a glass of red wine. 

When you go, 

People will peer over the edge. 

They crowd round in unadulterated joy with ribbons in hair. 

It is New Years Eve. May day. February 14th. 

All doors are flung open. 

In this space, you will go. 

And one day, 

That may feel like soon, 

When time is regarded in the context of eternity. 

I’ll follow.