We decided to start with things for the thrift store
With things that had no meaning
With things that did not make me remember you
White T-shirts, dress shirts, heating pads
Old towels, sweaters, long johns and socks
We tied the ends of the bags in knots
And marched to the store like soldiers to the shelves
Throwing your things there for strangers
But not the cold sheets on your bed
With its quilt folded neatly back as you liked it,
Your pillow in its spot on the left side,
Near your music player, where women
Soothed you to sleep and sang of quiet, enduring love
Nor the closet, with its jackets and suits you loved
To wear on Sundays to step out for coffee at the café
Or your dusty, out-of-tune mandolin,
Your lopsided leather bedroom slippers with the worn heels,
Or the pajamas you suspended from the bathroom hook
As though you planned to retrieve them soon
Nor your pants, the ones you wore at the end;
With your small knife in the back pocket,
The one you used to slice open bags of chips
It was there with the Hamilton watch you had just repaired
And 1940s pictures of you as a young man in double-breasted suits,
Perhaps taken just before a night at the movies or the cabaret.
One granddaughter wrote you a message in the snow
And another, the younger one who still imagines you are home
Wondered if a note were left on your bed,
You could read it and give her a call
