In the back of your closet
silent on a low shelf
you keep your dusty yearbooks from high school.
Stale makeup in little silver boxes
sit untouched on your dresser.
That skimpy black skirt,
that one you wore to the bachelorette party in ‘97,
you sold it at the yard sale last year for five dollars.
A pale telephone hangs from a long stringy cord, tangled in a crate in the basement.
Nobody is calling
The kids’ room is empty, a long blanket tucked delicately beneath worn sheets.
He has his own bedroom now
You still keep his trophies on the shelf near his bed
You’re not going to be young forever
Most days you sit on the back porch
Wearing slippers and a heavy bathrobe,
the lines on your face are made visible by the pounding rays of sun, but you don’t notice much anymore
You drink a lot of tea now,
and you listen to the trees in the backyard,
and you remember a time when you could climb them.