COMING HOME

I’m wearing my dark blue suit,
fresh from the cleaners,
my favorite tie,
its half moons whacked
from the sky, bits
of emerald summer
still clinging to them.
Around me are the people
I’ve known all my life.
Glad to see me, each
spends a moment, tries
to recall thirty years ago,
then moves on.
In the corner of the room,
where they think I can’t hear,
Mother, they say you are dying.

Your sister is combing your hair,
unfurling it like a white flag.
I hold your hands; they are small birds.
And suddenly I realize
that we’ll never say we’re sorry,
never put everything behind us.
There will only be these moments,
your wax blue lips against my cheek,
this fission of what we are, this division
into the silence you will take with you,
the silence you will leave behind.

by T.M. Johnson
Previously published in Bay Leaves