While he was at work

The sink ran all afternoon.

He  had left early, as always,

boots by the door, the smell of bleach

settled into the hallway.

 

You came when the house grew still  -

not knocking, just entering

through the front, as if expected.

You rolled up your sleeves,

ran water, stacked the plates to dry.

 

The machine had been failing for days.

When the repairman came, you spoke for it, 

named the fault, stepped aside.

 

In the other room, the child lay

where she had been left,

eyes open, hands turned inward.

You went to her, lifted her easily,

fed her, slowly from a spoon,

wiped her mouth, waited.

She made no sound during seizures.

 

You  tended the fireplace as you had  bought coal for us, 

bags and bags which you had carried down all those steps.

You made a fire to warm our bodies and minds

with your voice full of old ghost stories.

We always lit candles around you.

 

We did not rush. The tv spoke

in low voices from the sitting room.

You folded what he wore,

pressed his shirts with careful hands,

aligning each sleeve.

 

The back door stood open.

Air moved through the rooms.

He came home early  -

through the front.

You were quickly gone

through the back.

 

The repairman stayed at the machine,

answering what was asked.

 

In the next room, the children laughed -

not loudly, but enough.

 

By evening, everything was in place.

Floors swept, the bed remade,

his shirts hanging where they should be.

He sat a long time without speaking.

 

There are men who think

nothing happens in their absence.