What happens to the things you left behind,

Your room in pristine shape.

        every object, every artifact, right where you put it.

               you never let us touch your things,

                       who is to take care of them now?


Your radio you kept from the 80’s,
    
        still tuned to the 95.5, every Friday and Saturday.

               Now it sits silent on your nightstand,

                       only you knew how to make it sing.


Your bag of candy you bought from abroad,
     
        that used to line us up and place one into each of our palms

               but when it’s my turn, whisper ‘here’s two’,

                       who’s going to distribute them (un)equally?


Your special cup, devoid of life,

        where there was once tea, brewed to your taste,

               only the dregs remain, too sweet,

                       who will drink them except you?


Your pack of Marlboro 2010s,

        that you swear that you haven’t smoked since 71,

               and keep on you only for old time’s sake,

                       it smells of them when things get tough.


Your passport, full to the brim,

        with stamps and journeys from lands we’ll never see.

               I hear it’s nice where you’re going,

                       won’t you need it with you?


A wife, six daughters, eleven grandchildren,

        and I, what happens to them when you’re gone?

               You left only their bodies behind.

                       and took their hearts with you.


It’s been six months,

        since six feet under,

               and we’re still here, left behind,

                       waiting for you.


Your passport, 

        your room, your radio,

               your pack of Marlboro 2010s,

                       your bag of candy and cup of tea,

                               your wife, daughters, grandchildren, and I.


What happened to us, the things you left behind,