I miss him.
I want to be five again,
ten, thirteen, twenty two.
To relive a moment when he knocks the door,
and we knew it was him.
To not even let the door knock,
just to hear the jingle of his pockets,
keys, coins, bags of shopping in his hands,
just the rumble of his car in the driveway,
and meet him at the door once more.
We had to love him silently,
that’s how he loved us.
Head down, heart up,
mind occupied, with the future of his family.
Do they have enough, do they have what they want,
am I enough, maybe I can carve another piece out of myself,
maybe I can give away a bit more of my health for them.
The things that race through a unselfish man’s mind,
double, triple shifts,
he came home every morning, every afternoon,
smelling of cedar, leather and muskiness of sweat with a hint of lemon zest.
In 38 years, I never once smelt body odour on him,
a testament of what was inside him,
if ever I saw evidence of a man’s insides.