I miss his deep bellow
 from the front hall as he went out the door.
It wasn't loneliness.  It was a familiar emptiness
and he always came back.

I miss the dark grease
 on his clothes in the wash. 
It wasn't an imposition.  It was part of the routine
and it usually came out. 

I miss the dank stench
 he brought with him at the end of shift.
It wasn't much different to dad's.  It felt  right
and it didn't fill the house for long.

I miss the certainty
 that he brought with him.
But it's hardly sad. 
It's simply the end of something.
He's gone.