The Journey

April 24 -The garage sale

Two years:

When is our limit?

I walk around; slow,

The empty box, dragging me down

Like the weight of his words,

'Throw it out, all of it'

Twenty-four months:

Where will it end?

 I clutch the handle of her wardrobe

Dreading its contents

Her empty clothes, straining my eyes

To stay dry.

We both need today.

One hundred and four weeks:

How much longer?

My hand grazes her jumper

Caressing the old, woven fabric

The empty armsleeve, chilling the air

So I miss her embrace

But I need to do this.

Seven hundres and thirty days:

Is it almost over?

I've filled the box,

leaving nothing behind

Now an empty bedroom, cleared of her

A blank, frightening.

Don't look back.

Seventeen thousand, five hundred and thirty-two hours:

When will it stop?

My fingers brush the dust-painted frames

Of old, haunting memories

Her empty lounge chair, shaking my palms

'Jeremy? Are you done?'

He is calling me. It's almost time.

One million, fifty-one thousand and two hundred minutes:

Is this it?

I grab the last, final cage

Containing my heart in the form of crayons

And fingerpainted flowers

'I'm here Dad'

'Is that all of it?' 

Nodding he took me, into his embrace

Strong for the both of us he took

The chest of our lost treasure

To stack among scrap

For people to purchase, their wealth

And our freedom

Prisoning my cries,

I held, the ultimate farewell

In my four-year-old writing, 

Now in fifteen-year-old hands,

It's message, forever  true,

Laying it amongst the rest,

I read the words,

'Mommy, I love you'

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