Seven months later
and it still feels like last week,
yesterday,
today.
No matter how many days
of willed forgetfulness pass,
something happens
to halt the daily routine,
to make me remember,
to bring tears rushing out
of these eyes the world assumes
have long been dry.
Every time I answer the phone
and it's another ignorant salesperson,
asking for him,
and I have to say it out loud
"He's dead".
Every time a letter comes
with his name on it
and I put it in her mail pile
because I don't know where else it should go.
Every time I sit in that chair,
or at that desk,
or in that room,
or on that porch,
I still sometimes expect
to turn around and find him there,
smiling as he tells me to get out of his seat.

Seven months later
and I still remember every minute
of that day:
every action,
every breath,
every tear.
Give me seven years
and still I will remember every detail
of that door frozen shut with icicles,
of that room, cold and horribly silent,
of the notes left propped on the table.
Give me seven decades,
seven centuries,
seven hundred lifetimes
and I will yet remember
his face
as last I saw it,
sad and still and tear-streaked,
the hole through which his life poured out
matching the hole that he must have had,
inside,
for him to do that.
Give me eternity
and I will still remember
that I didn't even get to say goodbye.

Seven months later,
but it will always seem like last week,
yesterday,
today.
No matter how many years
of willed forgetfulness pass,
something will happen
to halt the daily routine,
to make me remember,
to bring tears rushing out
of these eyes even I thought dry.
Whether it happens when I'm wearing
my cap and gown,
my wedding gown,
or my birthing gown,
each day will have an empty place,
where he should've stood...
where he could've stood.
And where, I do not doubt,
I will still sometimes turn
and expect to find him there,
smiling and telling me
that it's about time I got out of his seat.

07/27/2001

Posted on 09/20/2002
Copyright © 2025 Amanda J Cobb