watching you leave,
I fear the distance
you must travel.
So I wait
while you fiddle
with starting the car—
all the things you do—
shuffle out of your coat,
adjust the mirrors.
I remain at the door
if it is cold like today,
14 degrees.
I have a cold lump
in my throat.
It’s hard to breathe.
I want you to
look from the car window
and wave one more time.
Your grandmother
used to weep
every time I left.
All day I make myself busy,
washing the bedding,
finding the things that strayed here—
shower cap
toothbrush
single sock.
