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
single sock.