I could never wash his sheets.
The sheets, on a bed that was too small.
His feet hung over, but he didn’t complain.

He’d come home on leave,
maybe ten days.
Sometimes only three and I’d just smile.

Wrap my arms around,
clasp my hands and if I could have
I would not have let go.

I would not wash his sheets,
after we'd return from the airport
and my husband sat down to the TV.

I’d go into his room,
bury my head in his pillow.
Pull the comforter up to my nose.

Inhale my son
and for a moment unforgivable
cry unseen, unheard.

Once he left a pair of boots near the bed.
Left half a pack of Marlboros, quarters, a camo cover
and a receipt for Jack Daniels on his dresser.

I’d tell myself … I’ll wash his pillow case again
when he remembers that half pack of Marlboros,
and I don’t swallow so hard when the phone rings.

I’d ask myself … If I strip his bed clean,
how will I ever find my son? How will I know
he slept here, if he doesn’t make it home.


jeannerené 2.2014