Mother Leaving

  by Susan Stevens


“Just get my mother back safely to Austin,”
I said, “and next to Daddy, as she planned.
No funeral.” Later, putting on your favorite coat,
I reached into a pocket, my hand closing 
around stiff paper. I pulled it out
to see the half-stick
of your favorite gum in its orange
wrapper.  You seemed so recent then.
Reaching my other hand quickly
into the left pocket, I found
the crumpled foil wrapper holding
your used gum. It was as if your going
was a lie.  It made me think of how
we’re always sorting, prepared
to discard some things, saving others
as if they couldn’t disappear.