What’s Left

What’s left,

besides the dirty glasses, plates and silverware,

are the images that become

the reference points for all that comes later.

 

There’s the prayer

offered up by your daughter,

her appreciation

as she looked at me,

that look reassuring in its

totality of inclusion.

 

There’s my hand

resting on your body,

as you slept on the couch

in the sustaining light of the tree,

while your children played backgammon.

 

There’s the softening of my jaded heart,

the one shut down

by disappointment and grief.

 

And there’s today,

waking to a kitchen

full of dirty glasses, plates and silverware,

and me,

letting go of resentment,

cleaning it all,

gladly.

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