Dusty, warm sunlight leaves the room
in afternoon silence.
Everything is calm, no one is here.
They left me, he left me.
The pipe still lingers lightly on my lap,
tobacco spread on a white,
old sloppy handkerchief.
The smell of onions, cooked long ago,
still sticks to the walls.
I am alone but I am here
where I've always been.
My feet on cold stone.
My warm wooden legs,
massive, indestructible.
Still, not massive enough
to keep the father from slamming the mother,
who cried cutting onions.
She fell off of me.
I am solid, I give comfort.
I've always been here and always will be.
Where is he?
I remember his little limbs on my lap
in worn-out fisher's jeans;
young, relentless,
dreaming of tomorrow.
A blithe smile, his eyes full of shimmering hope.
I remember his bones growing bigger,
his weight becoming heavier on my basket top.
I remember him sitting and waiting;
waiting for his long lost pa as he was growing
as old as they had been.
The air is cold now, the sunlight is gone.
No smell of tobacco,
no snoring after hours of sitting.
No shimmering eyes,
no smile around his lips,
grim around his chin.
There will always be a tomorrow for me,
but, I am afraid,
there is no tomorrow for him.