avatarJacob Flanders

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Abstract

, once. Oh, look here</i>, I say to no one — to the linen closet, itself, I guess — <i>at the stains on this pillowcase</i>.</p><p id="b422">A series of brownish-orange dots and a small smear: evidence of a failed attempt to feed you what once was your favorite sweet potato baby food. <i>You loved that stuff, huh? You could never get enough!</i></p><p id="3eac">That is, until you couldn’t get any at all, because you couldn’t keep it down — and then the fat went, and then the lean muscle went, the eyes sunk, the gums lost their pretty pink color. And then the light went. Then the hope went. And then you.</p><p id="b238">You went.</p><p id="1907">And then I was left. With a linen closet. And it is full of your things.</p><p id="8d89">I go back in time in the linen closet: and we talk. And it is better than nothing, which is all there is otherwise.</p><p id="cfea"><i>Thanks for reading. Check out another poem of mine if you’re interested:</i></p><div id="8240" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/i-sometimes-sat-and-wondered-who-8355012f372b">

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            <h2>I sometimes sat and wondered who</h2>
            <div><h3>I sometimes sat and wondered who

would be the first to go — to leave our sixteen legged pack, prints missing in the…</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*-0xp5A9UbEQmkN2Dvz52tQ.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="f75b" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/i-bent-over-your-body-1f87e63dd484"> <div> <div> <h2>I bent down over your body</h2> <div><h3>A poem of a reluctant goodbye</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*fRidP6elJS4eD38_)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

I go back in time in the linen closet:

Photo by LumenSoft Technologies on Unsplash

I go back in time in the linen closet: standing there defenseless, caught unawares, confronted by towels from the end — the ones we used when you couldn’t keep it down, couldn’t keep it in, couldn’t keep anything at all.

Pastel sheets I bought you in the last three months before you died: bright, soft, comforting shades which, if they eased not your pain, eased mine, a very little bit, on some days, for brief moments.

Look, I say aloud to no one, at the stain on this towel: the echo of a failed attempt to get you to potty in time. But it’s okay, I say, it’s just good to see you — to see, well, that you were, once. Oh, look here, I say to no one — to the linen closet, itself, I guess — at the stains on this pillowcase.

A series of brownish-orange dots and a small smear: evidence of a failed attempt to feed you what once was your favorite sweet potato baby food. You loved that stuff, huh? You could never get enough!

That is, until you couldn’t get any at all, because you couldn’t keep it down — and then the fat went, and then the lean muscle went, the eyes sunk, the gums lost their pretty pink color. And then the light went. Then the hope went. And then you.

You went.

And then I was left. With a linen closet. And it is full of your things.

I go back in time in the linen closet: and we talk. And it is better than nothing, which is all there is otherwise.

Thanks for reading. Check out another poem of mine if you’re interested:

Grief
Loss
Death
Love
Poetry
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