Yesterday was the eighth anniversary of my father's death. I remember walking through the house and noticing those daily routines of life paused as if he'd be back to them in just a bit. And noting those things felt intimate and tender, even.
. . . . . . .
What do you leave behind
when you die? Strange,
little things, once
beneath notice, stand still
as if the blur of this life
was, say, paused by the
TV remote you had placed near
the newspaper crossword puzzle,
partly completed.
A tube of toothpaste
lies by the bathroom sink,
squeezed and rolled
neatly from the bottom.
How did I not know this
about you? The collection
of Gorilla Tape in the
drawer? So many colors!
Neat files of bills labeled
in your last shaky handwriting.
My own desk is a mess. Papers
calve like icebergs. Toothpaste
crumpled, its top lost. Am
I your son? What do you
leave behind when
you die?