My Grief Hides
by Venetia Bradfield
My grief hides
inside the battered suitcase.
Empty
but for the odor
of Sri Lanka’s harbor
deep within
its weathered lining.
My grief glides
into my dad’s favorite chair.
Empty
but for the stain
of cheap red wine
and remnants
of his wit.
My grief resides
in the warmth of mama’s kitchen.
Empty
but for the faint aroma
of her Norwegian
cooking.
My grief collides
with the abandoned wheelchair.
Empty
but for my sister’s courage
and the taste of her
enthusiasm
for life.
My grief bides
its time on the Pressroom barstool.
Empty
but for the sting of his tongue
and the ring of Uncle
Tim’s laughter.
My grief rides
In the bed of my old truck.
Empty
but for traces of wind
that rushed past Rocko
as he sniffed
the air.
My grief strides
across the meadows Sarah hiked.
Empty
but for the shadow of
the mountain lion
stalking deer.
My grief slides
Into the leather boxing gloves
left behind.
Empty
but for the smell of his sweat.
His hands no longer
enliven the space within.
But his laughing eyes
still play on the retinas
of mine.