Not the cards
crafted by stubby kindergarten
thumbs, shamrocks and elves
remember the day
get well soon!
and see you monday
Not the bus ride home,
Not the brown paper sack
of St. Patrick's Day cheer
clenched like treasure in
one hand, the
star of the show
I take them
home to my sick father
Not the climb up the stairs
heels whisking
two steps at a time.
Not the "I have something for him,"
met on the top step to keep
me from the bedroom
can't reach the door to push it open.
Not the slow walk to my room
wondering
what?
Not the talk on my bed
Jesus God in Heaven
Not the no crying, the knowing.
Not the Edge of Night slicing
mid-day silence as I pick my fingers,
think about where they have taken "him."
None of that, no.
It is something less, the absence of,
the wrinkles in crisp bedsheets
missing his form,
the tautness of the groove
that hugged us there
"What's on tv?"
It is the first time I see the open
bedroom
so-stark-sun remembering,
caresses the antique poster bed
windows lifted to sanitize,
and the March wind
reminds me I am alive.
He is not.
It is the empty bed.
...
