good housekeeping
to her
it isn’t strong
it isn’t stoic
it isn’t sensible
to hold onto his jacket
his flannel shirt
his belt
his cologne
or his memory
that feeling of warmth
when i close my eyes
and i am holding him
on a rainy day
and he is looking at me
with the kind of overflowing love
only a daddy can feel for his little girl
suddenly we are there in the driveway
and i am eleven years old
and he pitches one into the zone
and i swing hard
the unmistakable sound of wood hitting cork and leather
coming straight for his chest
his glove lifts and i’m out!
and for a second he’s stunned
then he grins and nods
and we call it a day
how many afternoons did we live free like that
mowing the lawn
fixing the car
playing ball
sitting on the washing machine in the garage
…..drinking his sugary sweet lemonade and shooting the breeze
and all i wanted
at the last
was to walk into his closet
and close my eyes
take in a breath and smell his cologne
feel his warmth
…..and the fabric of his shirt against my cheek
now wrapped securely in a box
on its way to somewhere
to be put to good use she says
the closet now empty.
