Grief is the lion 
that cannot be contained. 
Mouth wide open, 
it consumes every emotion,
quietly walking up behind us
with no notice.
A month passes,
and the lion of loss remains stealthy.
I am still counting the weeks
since your departure.
I hear your laugh,
expect to see you reading in your green armchair.
How do we say goodbye
when presence is infused in every framed photo,
every coat in the closet,
every book left on a table?
Every corner of the room still sees you.
When I visit my mother,
I look for the steady path you took.
The sound of the walker against the hard wood floor
was like the minute hand on the clock,
a reliable timekeeper.
 
If memory is the furnace that warms,
loss is the cold snap,
leaving rooms empty, bereft.
The lion follows me,
tracking my movements,
with the clear knowledge 
that I will always know he is there.
I play the game of let’s pretend
in the hopes that one day
the taps on the shoulder will lose their sharp edge.
I will hope for the swirling smoke of memory
to become the comfort that your warm smile
and easy laughter once was in my life.
I can still hear the model trains running in a circle.
I can still see your eyes squint and focus 
on fixing a single wheel.