I turned back into the house and the
suffocating, devastating quiet hit me
right between the eyes.

My stomach wadded into a knot of
old bread dough, and the gasp for
breath was real, instant and scary.

The quiet that I longed for and loved
was smothering. I wanted to run,
to scream. He had only been home

for a weekend, Friday 9 p.m. to
Sunday 11 a.m. Time was used well.
Happy fun. Quality time. Bonding.

So what’s the matter? Is this quiet that
I crave only good if the conspirators
to keep me from it are nearby, and

occasionally rudely intrude? I seem
to be the designated family hermit
without the true desire to herm.

Maybe he’ll come back. Maybe
there’s something he forgot.
I’ll look around the house.

I hope he’s not crying too, but
if his eyes were a little teary
that would be really nice.
Like Father Like Son
These poems are
tracks marking the
happy meandering path
of ongoing discovery ...