The Closet

The boy who once owned it
could never know
how dresses would flow to his carpet,
or how purses and belts accessorize shelves.
He etched marker drawings deep into the walls.
His mother stayed till retirement,
than removed her things.
"This was his room," she'd say.
My arms held cardboard boxes to fill the emptiness.
I open the room where his bear still sat in the middle.
The first night was cold in the basement,
the night his room would become mine.
As I lay in the bed, I could see the accident,
a slow story without sound: second grade,
the TV fell, crushing him to his last breath.
Years later I paint over his wood paneling with light blue.
With each brush stroke his name bleeds through.

Through the 3rd Eye was supported in its inception by the Grand Rapids Humanities Council and is currently made possible by continued volunteer effort and private support. Copyright 2013.