{ Grieving }

I started with the closet

And unpacked all the boxes

That held our Kodak film.

I ran my fingers along the outline of your yearbook portraits

And your gym class snapshots

And your graduation candids

And our wedding day photographs.

That was the day I had to face the reality

You

Were never coming back.

And I told myself this was healthy--

That those shelves could not stay frozen in time,

That leaving things just

The way

They are

Would not allow me to spin back the hands of that ticking clock

And breath life into your lungs again.

So I disturbed the silence

And found the memories we hid in our raincoat pockets

And faded tennis shoes.

I fingered your sweatshirts hanging limply on the wire hangers

Near the back of the closet

Where fishing poles and cobwebs

Kept them company.

Then I pulled them off the rack,

Carefully folding them with a precision that can only be explained by hesitation:

Was it too soon?

Could this wait--

For now?

But I kept on,

Slowly removing each hanger from each neck hole

As I waited for God to stop me

And tell me this was all a misunderstanding.

I knew if it was

I could find it in my heart to forgive Him

For taking you away from me.

But with each sweater

And each polo

And each button up

I found more and more reason to believe that this

Wasn't just pretend.

And each box I filled

Marked another step

Towards finality

As my reality

Was defined by your absence.

But you must still be here.

I can smell you on the leather jacket I can't bring myself to touch.

I can hear you in the clink of each hanger--

Almost as if you're still getting ready in the morning,

Rushing to throw on whatever is convenient,

Forgetting to check if it's clean.

And I can feel your breath against my skin when the box fan murmurs in the bedroom.

I can see your shadow when the dim light creeps in our window.

I can taste your aftershave on the corners of my lips--

A gentle reminder of when I kissed you every morning as you got ready to go.

But I cannot keep waiting for you to come home.

And so

I am left to crouch on my knees--

Folding the clothes you forgot you even owned--

As I try and figure out what it means

To move on.