or more, before the next time.
Or maybe there won't be a next time.
He goes, I stay; who knows?
He has taken his big body
made fat by booze and chocolate
and sedentary living,
eagerly off after one last hug.
He has taken his white laptop
and the slim black mobile phone.
No more calls to America at 2 am
and we get back our dining table.
He has taken both old sleeping-bags,
patched and heavy, 30-year relics
of him and his brother as kids.
I didn't say no, but now I wish he'd left one.
He fixed the things around the house
that weren't working: electrical items,
carpentry jobs, the way we do the budget,
the irritating noise from the back of the fridge.
And he pointed out the lies
with which I've surrounded myself
and those that I've been telling; left me
with many questions and a new desire to ask.
I'm weepy. My head spins and jangles
after the car drives off with a cheery toot.
'We need a smudge stick,' his stepfather says,
'To get all that crap out of the house!'
© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2008