He dies weeks short of their
anniversary
It would have been
sixty-five years that month.
Fifteen years since his mind
became liquid from strokes
Draining memory
From he and my mother. Now
he has not been home
For two years, his dementia
trapping his mind
As the nursing home traps his body. He dies
So far from
himself.
It takes her months to ignore the urge to go
To the home where he is no longer planted.
It had taken years to ignore the urge to reach
Out across their
bed.
How long had it been since he had lain there?
Long enough that his indelible smell,
Once penetrated to the deepest channels
Of her memory,
No longer linger in the sheets. His towels
Still hold him as she left them on his racks
In the corner of the bathroom. She left
Them to touch
what touched
His face every morning after he shaved.
She wondered if there are smells in Heaven.
Can she even doubt it? The best of lives
Must go on
somewhere.
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