If It Is Ever Summertime Again
Photo credit: Juan Salamanca and Taisiia Shestopal.
It is not your pillow that I cling to. It remains firm and stiff behind me as I sleep, keeping me from rolling over. Nor is it your clothes still dangling on hangers on your side of the closet and tucked away in bureau drawers. Our friends and family encourage me to stuff them into plastic bags and donate them to the Salvation Army. It is the raft that you inflated for our daughter to float upon, drifting around the clubhouse pool. The raft is the last place where your breath remains. Periodically, I uncork the clear rubber plug and feel the warm air exhale across my neck or caress my eyelids. It is like a hidden bottle of wine that I take a small sip from, the vintage being you. Eventually it will empty. The raft is already collapsing upon itself as the air escapes. I try to hold out, knowing I will need it to last through the holidays. If it is ever summertime again, it will be my responsibility to inflate the raft.
About the Author
A librarian living by the banks of the Connecticut River in Springfield, Massachusetts, Thomas O’Connell’s poetry and short fiction has appeared in Jellyfish Review, Blink-ink, Live Nude Poems, Hobart, and The Los Angeles Review, as well as other print and online journals.
