Mr. Death

Why the look?

I have my reasons.

The notes my mother would always write

Were meant to excuse me.

And, I learned well.

So…

I’m remembering

The first day my mother helped me cheat truth to miss school.

Snow fell.

Fell heavily,

Like today.

I cried that my head hurt

And my chest was full of cough.

After dark…

I found I was in my dead father’s bed,

His uniform still hanging on the door,

Right where mother placed it so long ago,

Taken down once a month to be cleaned

For reasons she never shared.

Today…

His bed is warm as it always was,

No matter the weather.

And I like it.

When young,

I’d slip in after mother was asleep,

And even as I pretended to be asleep,

I really wanted to weep under the covers.

Now…

I still cling to certain boyhood questions.

Yet,

Too old to weep,

Too old to hide beneath blankets.

As I look out the window,

I always see Mother in her crimson red robe and slippers,

Kneeling in frozen whiteness

As she talks with the soldier lying in the snow.

Turning toward me,

Peering up at the window,

Father’s window,

Her finger presses to her lips.

To awaken from such a moment,

To want so much the most important note,

The words of truth never spoken,

Hurts too much.

Even with the warm covers pulled up and over,

The question seems so…

So…

Unresolved, Mr. Death.