You left your coffee mug on the counter, I saw your Adidas on the floor. I breathed heavy down the hallway and saw your jacket hung on the closet door.
I walked passed the recliner, it’s a newly empty seat, for 14 days it will not be the place you prop your feet.
I journey to our bedroom, then replay our moments in the quiet. Tears swell, I let them fall, cause your side of the bed will be silent.
I miss you for these moments, I wipe the sadness from my tired eyes, I walk to our kids’ bedrooms and declare, “It’s an Uno game kind of night!”
I pretend that I’m not broken, I pretend I’m strong enough, I act like I’m not waiting on my savior in his silver Ford Truck.
I do all the laundry, give the baths, then sweep the floors, I do ANYTHING to busy the thought that you’re not walking through that door.
I embrace your hoodie for a moment, take in the dirt and work and sweat. Hold it close before I wash it, so your scent I don’t forget.
I cheer on all our babies, I give kisses and hugs goodnight. I try to be everything to them, but as Dad, I’m just not right…
I play podcast after podcast, listen to lectures on repeat, I blast my mind with so much noise to distract from my reality.
I praise you for your willingness to make a living such as this, I know you let your tears fall down, driving opposite of your waving kids.
But then it is your go time, down to strictly business, and in the meantime I hold down the fort with thumb tacks and paper clips…
(written by Stacy Johnson 3/6/19)