Sometimes when I descend the basement steps,
I talk to you. It’s as if your ghost still haunts
the workshop. The birdhouse you were building
sits on the table half-made next to a pile of walnut,
cherry and maple for cutting boards. Christmas presents
interrupted like your sentences from that nagging cough.
The warning we didn’t understand.
I tell you about my day, complain if I have to empty
a mouse trap, inform you about how my grief
is progressing. Sometimes I touch your tools,
the hammer leaning against the wall just the way
you left it, the table saw coated with dust. Perhaps
I’m waiting for them to move, cut the roof
for the birdhouse, bang in the nails.
Each time I visit, I close the door again, reminded
of the great wall between us. Perhaps your ghost
needs time to make peace with unfinished business.
Something we still share. My grief also hangs
midsentence.
