the following represents an accumulation of signs of his passage taken over several visits. i don't know why this interests me, but i find it comforting to find his traces in the house, even now when we don't see so much of him. as soon as i see the first sign, i float through the house gathering up the rest, putting together a picture of his presence, imagining him going about his life while it intersects briefly with the place we all call home. as a reader, i glean from the signs, putting together stories. like a little animal, i shamble about, room to room, sniffing up evidence, reconstructing the path that other little animal took.
which doesn't always make me popular. i was asked last night via text if i make it a practice to go through the trash when i get home. as a rule, no, i don't. but when i notice something interesting in the bin, i might ask about it.
but i can't help it. it comforts me to see these markers of my boy's existence in our house still. i like knowing he was here even when i wasn't. the little signs he leaves behind make me happy, even when i'm picking up the bath mat for the ten-thousandth time.
|a jacket on the hearth,|
sometimes a backpack
|toss-away coffee cup,|
generally in the trash. sometimes
soda bottles in the recycling.
|laundry doors left open.|
i always close them.
|that pesky bath mat just doesn't hang itself|
|sometimes new artwork appears|
|sometimes a new single on the coffee table|