And every day I open the window,
put fresh flowers by the bed,
plump the pillows, turn down
the counterpane of wild geese,
dust the china pig, the photo
taken when you started school.
I open the drawer, feel the soft wool
of your favourite jersey,
bury my nose, search a scent,
a reminder, a hope that one day
you’ll walk in, smile, say
it was all a mistake, a great adventure.
You’d be eighteen now, a woman,
perhaps a mother with child in tow.
The day turns to dusk, light fades,
shadow drowns the room.
The door clatters, childish voices,
my son has brought a friend,
they won’t stay long.
The back door slams.
James comes in, calls I’m home.
I pat the bed, close windows,
whisper your name, try
to paint a smile in my eyes.
Keep writing 