My dad’s flannel shirt hangs in the shed
these ten years later. A musty smell
of turpentine and wood oil
has settled in the work space.
Mom’s handwritten cookbooks
clutter the cabinet, sticky
with her fingerprints, flour still seeping
from the pages years after her death.
Yet, here in this house, it’s the unfinished,
unsaid words I yearn for in the silence.
A complicated family maze of lightness
and dark lingers here .
Now, I need to ask:
Did I say enough to you?
When I am gone, will you know?
Have I filled your world with a clarity of being enough?
When you find my sweater hanging in the closet,
will you touch it with sweet memories of how much you were loved?