Poetry With Hart

Old t-shirts in the closet
holiday decorations in the attic.
The only once used, then forgotten,
waffle iron and matching crock pot
next to the glassware collection.

The smile in the photograph
but not really a smile.
More a wry chuckle
behind the sunglasses
without a sound.

The echo of their voices
is in the walls of the house,
not quite real, just before audible,
Their scent is in the windchines
and cardinals carry thoughts of them.

I never met your parents,
but I crave the knowing of them.
Dead too young, yet old enough
for stories of stoic kindness
and generous hearts.

They never knew their grandsons,
so I dream of their advice.
What would they make of them
were they here to witness
the light within their play?

You told me your dad
would end his day reclining
newspaper in hand,
to sleep watching Star Trek re-runs.
His silence spoke enough.

Your mother was a whirl
of warmth, strawberry blonde curls,
and meticulously organized.
Running a “Relay for Life” army
like she was born to save lives.

I put our youngest son to bed,
exhausted from creating a myriad of
ways to reinvent mischief.
His sleepy smile warm,
his curls copper gold in the light.

Our oldest nods to me as I pass
his toddler rocker chair,
picture book stretched in his lap
as “Faith of the Heart” plays softly
on the tv screen.

I acknowledge his sweet silence,
and let it pass. I miss them
despite never having met.
Empty heartbreak, yet I see
a piece of them still, everyday.