ROBES
On my doorstep was her robe.
Just her robe and not her.
She was gone…..the last one.
The robe stayed.
She did not.
That old path of pain
Like that song I can no longer bear to hear beating against my
Emotions.
The rush of images long forgotten coming alive
Against my will. Here and now.
I did not chose it—for the robes to stay while their owners
Turned to ghosts
And left me to grieve.
I would not have chosen for the robes to lose their
Warmth—to lose their owners.
Yet here they are. Remaining. Remains.
Folded up mirrors of the people who once found solace and comfort in those
Pieces of cloth—those warm colors and silky layers.
Fabric bodies with no form,
Just laying there, still. No more breath.
Yet still carrying vestiges of perfume and shaving cream.
Somewhere in the past they spring to life moving, staying up late, talking, laughing, Crying,
Solving the world’s problems.
Bringing an accent to the snuggle in a grandfather’s arms.
Getting ready to celebrate.
Losing the fight.
Finally sleeping.
Do I wear the robes?
Do I throw them out?
Do I put them in a closet out of eyesight left there to die slowly?
None of them stayed.
They all went away.
They are all gone.
Robes are here and so am I.
