Time Stood Still

Time stopped
the day he left.
Broken branches, dog dirt,
leftover leaves
from fall’s last stand against the cold,
are all scattered across the unmowed lawn.

I sit in a chair
on the patio
and smoke a cigarette.
Where they would sit
and smoke a cigarette.
Drink coffee with cream on Sunday mornings.

I remember
they were happy
on those summer days,
we were happy
when they let us sleep through church.

Last summer,
he moved out his things.
Twenty years of memories
fit onto one gray flatbed truck.
As tears stained hardwood floors,
three similar faces stood helpless behind French doors.

Now,
He’s traded coffee with my mother
For martinis with the secretary—
Smoking a cigarette on a patio
Staring out at new yard
someplace where he doesn’t have to mow the lawn.