I remember

I remember the room

in the back of your house

with the old box TV

on a thin metal shelf

and reclining chairs

that sat against the walls.

I remember the music-

Papa always loved to play the piano.

The room in the back had no door,

so his music always let itself in

and floated around the room,

making itself, and us feel, right at home.

(his favorite song still dances through my head sometimes)

I remember when the music stopped.

I wasn’t old enough to understand why,

but you started watching TV with us.

I remember the movies.

You only ever had two:

Hairspray and Black Beauty.

(I still can’t watch either without thinking of you)

I remember when the movies stopped too.

I remember the quiet.

When the white walls

became the loudest thing in the house,

and the silence

told me everything

the grown-ups wouldn’t say.

I remember when they cleared the room:

The day your hospital bed replaced the recliners.

Your nurses had to stay around the clock

and all our family from out of town

started to visit.

I remember the day the quiet broke:

Dad picked us up early.

I didn’t let anyone see me cry.

I remember the day they cleared the bed too.

and our room

was just a room.

I remember saying goodbye.