Autumn Leaves

by Olivia Conway

It feels like my organs have all condensed
And situated themselves in my chest
Where the pressure has become so great
That explosion is imminent.
 
I stand in the kitchen,
Waiting to see your final moments
In this house;
Where you watched three generations
Walk the hall
That you glide down silently
Now.
 
Sunday breakfast will never be the same,
Because no one can put the cheese in the
Little lettuce baskets like you.
I try.
But it never comes out quite right
And the dressing will always be salted with tears.
 
I don’t remember where you put the peppers,
But I know the artichoke hearts go in the center.
I like to pretend
That your hands guide mine
And that the presence of half your antipasto
Will somehow make me feel whole.
 
The holidays are lonelier, now.
Too many empty chairs.
None of us can help but stare
At where your plate should be.
 
Your piano plays in my mind,
Though it’s stood idle for months.
The songs you tried to teach me
Are almost forgotten now.
The Autumn Leaves
Drift by my window
And all I can remember is that:
“Since you went away,
The days grow long.
And soon I’ll hear
Old winter’s song.
But I miss you most of all
My darling,
When autumn leaves
Start to fall.”