Ham, bean, and potato soup.Cinnamon streusel coffee cake.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
July the 13th, 2008.
It is not the event of your death that I imagine - the shattering of the windshield, the force of the steering wheel against your chest. Rather, it is the way you walked, the sound of your voice, that goofy smile that I recall.
And maybe more relentlessly than hearing the life still left in the remembrance of your laugh, my mind wanders to a vision of your mother walking into your messy room. I see the way she picks up your work boots to set them neatly by the door. I watch her fingers feel the bills of your hats. She opens the closet, heaped with clothes, and she finds a favorite shirt. She sits down on your unmade bed and she breathes in your scent.
This supposition plays over and over in my head. These three questions, ones that I will never answer, always follow: What does a mother do with her dead son's possessions? How could she ever keep them? How will she ever let them go?
--for you, rich.
And maybe more relentlessly than hearing the life still left in the remembrance of your laugh, my mind wanders to a vision of your mother walking into your messy room. I see the way she picks up your work boots to set them neatly by the door. I watch her fingers feel the bills of your hats. She opens the closet, heaped with clothes, and she finds a favorite shirt. She sits down on your unmade bed and she breathes in your scent.
This supposition plays over and over in my head. These three questions, ones that I will never answer, always follow: What does a mother do with her dead son's possessions? How could she ever keep them? How will she ever let them go?
--for you, rich.
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