I Believe In

REMEMBRANCE

You left when I was a toddler,
before I could sense your soul
so I’m standing in your last house asking
who you were: are you hiding or trapped behind
the sugar shakers, salt grinders, dried herbs,
all reflecting me, hungry for your touch?

But I believe in resolution.
Dad said you really loved me;
something pitched you over
the edge, into headlong flight.

An apron I’ve never known before
hangs off the door like an insult;
it’s meaningless because I never
saw you wearing it, whipping up a treat
for your next family;
it’s a cloth-closed door.

But I believe in second chances.
Dad holding my hand the day after
you left, putting my shoe back on,
letting me find my own balance.

The smell of rosemary is overpowering,
leads me to a horror in the sink.
Drowned and hanging, I look at it
through blurred eyes,
floored by the torn net:
bouquet garni, used and left behind
in the chasm of your caring.

I’m too savvy to believe in god,
or children’s magic
but I always hoped you’d
come back for me, not leave a mess,
a single note of rosemary,
another botched goodbye.