by John Rutt

Created on: April 08, 2009

The day I came home you were gone.
Every day from now, for all time,
you will be gone.

I walked into the house,
the house I grew up in
with you always there.
Clean and neat, not a
thing out of place -
except that you were not in yours.

You've traded one bed for another -
a narrower and colder one.
As cold as your cheek was,
when I touched you in your casket
as I silently spoke to you.

Not again to hear your voice
with its hint of Slavic music.
Not again to smell your kitchen
and how it proclaimed your domain.

Never having the chance to
at the very least, beg you
not to leave.

Getting me home from a war
was the very last thing you would ever do
for me.

Getting home too late
was the very last thing I would ever do
for you.

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