Aunt Kathryn’s house is half empty
three weeks after Uncle Milt left for good.
She meets us at the door
as if nothing has changed.
In the bedroom where he lay,
the hospital bed is made, its sheets
drawn tight.
She has his shoes out, lined up on the floor
in pairs, stiff and curled. Tennis shoes. Black and brown dress
shoes. A pair of work boots
she hands to my father. “You take these,” she says.
“I can’t,” he says. “They’re expensive. Ask David first.”
She considers, then sets them down on the floor again.
In the bathroom, one sink is wet, one towel is rumpled,
one soap has orange bubbles clinging to it, popping.
There is a smell.
There is half a smell.
I wander outside. I do not want any of them
to see me.
At the rabbit cage, I look for a telltale fluff of white.
But it is cold; he is not moving. He has no name
anyway; he will not come if I call.
The chickens are gone, the garden is soaked through
and frozen.
I slide open a shed door
and stand staring at the riding lawn mower,
the tractor, reeking of gasoline.
Silent as cattle in a field
beneath fog.
I remember the last time I saw him,
this quiet man quieted, his lips barely moving,
faintly wincing, eyes closed,
apologizing for not having gassed up the leaf-blower.
I held his hand until he pulled away.
I remember coming here a few weeks before,
after the snow piled up in the backyard,
my father digging a narrow path to the shed,
to the rabbit,
watching him work silently, slowly,
the green grass beneath his boots
as he moved away and out of sight.
Jason Miller
3.26.09
