Outside

I sit in the light of two fluorescent bulbs –

one flickering above the workbench,

the other swinging over the washer and dryer –

and wonder over my nest, soon bare.

Here in the garage,

with only the leftover laundry to stir my memory,

I find fewer cues to catapult my heart.

Inside,

boxes sit, ready for college,

with hangers perched atop taped cardboard,

bound in bakers bundles like so many necessary soldiers.

Pillows piled, alongside dish drainers,

and vacuums for second year;

each an undeveloped portrait.

Everywhere I turn, vestiges of yesterday taunt me.

Pictures uncovered in the clean out,

set beside the sofa in a reused box;

third grade recitals rescued alongside

our first television set and an old turn table.

These objects wait hopefully

eager to audition for the leading role

in this latest play.

For now they sit, still and quiet, before the hearth,

in tidy rows, named and claimed,

while temperatures outside soar to summer heights.

I leave

the comfort of what I know, move

away from the collect of this latest change

(in truth it has me swallowing stones)

and find solace on the dusty concrete of the garage.

I sit,

sweat threatening my spine,

in an old blue game chair,

rocking too and fro,

while their father collects cords

and ropes,

coiling them, hanging them,

tying us, surely, to what was and

what will be.