Shifting Slowly

Just put your sweater on, Pa.
You left napkins in the left pocket —
unused, folded like little promises.

Maybe you tucked them there
because you knew the kind of nights ahead,
the quiet I couldn’t name.
I’ll keep them safe.

Your scent still clings to the collar;
I press it to my face and the room fills with you.
God, I miss you.

I go back to that last night —
if only I had known.
Maybe we would have come back sooner.
Maybe I would have said more, held you tighter,
asked you to stay a little while.

For now I have your tissues.
I keep them not only for grief,
but for the day we meet again —
when the tears will be different:
splitting open with laughter, joy spilling over.

When that day comes, Pa,
I’ll use these napkins to dry our eyes —
the ones that finally find us smiling.