11/1/10

HIS SHIRT
By Celeste M. Johnson


I lay down, breathing in the scent
of my husband.
The smell of his deodorant
lingering on the shirt he wore
the night it was ripped off
without any regard to how
the fabric would shred.

I watched his motionless body
laying on the floor
while the EMTs tried to restore life.

I watched as they tried
over and over
to restart his heart.
The words,
“Who wants to call it?”
still echo in my
heart
and mind.

So many times
on that kitchen floor
he and I played
with our kids…
Not knowing what fate
the linoleum held
for my sweetheart.

So tonight,
tomorrow,
the next night,
nights without end,
I lay in our bed.
A l o n e.
My fingers clutch
the last shirt he wore
before he died.

Seven years have now
sifted through the hourglass.
The shirt
smells no more.
But I see him in
our daughters’ faces.
Lasting longer
than
any scent.


- - -
Celeste lives in southern Utah with her new husband, two stepsons, and two daughters. She has been writing works of poetry and fiction since she was in the 4th grade. Celeste also enjoys waving at strangers to see how they react.