He was gone and I was alone
rearranging picture frames and furniture
trying to make it feel more like home
when I noticed that I was inadvertently
making a shrine to you.
I had the little gold tree from your bedroom dresser
and weathered pictures on
your old buffet table. the only piece
of dining room furniture that is still
adorned with the piece of lace you picked
out for it. Dingy and yellow and I can't
stand the thought of replacing it.
I had hung one of your paintings-the
black stallion on the hills. It used to hang
over our record player in between the kitchen and
den. I used to watch you dance under it. and
I still can when I close my eyes. I still can
see your feet move over that linoleum floor
that was printed to look like rocks. (Oh, the 80s)
And I had put two rosaries there,
one that you brought me from your hair-brained trip
to Venezuela. We tried to tell you not to go, but no
one could ever tell you anything. I wonder where I get
that from?
One...you had been holding when you
left me. you left all of us behind, you left me
with this feeling of remorseful relief. you left
me crying in my hall bathroom. silently sobbing
even though I was supposed to expect it. Silently
sobbing so I wouldn't wake him because I wanted
in that moment
to be totally alone, not comforted, not held, not told
it would be okay because I knew I couldn't believe that.
And I'm still here pretending you're with me
or at least in the air
and while kissing your pictures, I imagine my
lips are one more time on your salty, wrinkled forehead
and
I can smell your unwashed hair and I can hear
you say you love me. I can hear myself say it back
because there I am, standing in my dining room, talking
to you again.
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