Dirty Laundry

Folding clothes
busywork stills my agitation
keeps my mind
off the image of you
wearing the suit
you only ever wore to funerals.

Never laundered
in all the years you had it.
Only worn for an hour or two
then carefully hung back up
like a bat in the back of the closet
waiting for the next dark occasion
to emerge.

Practically new
but I washed it
before I gave it to the undertaker.
Used a whole bottle
of fabric softener
but that didn't soften their tongues.

The whispers twist 
into an unbalanced load of lies.

Underneath yesterday’s towels
I stumble upon your shirt
the one you wore
the day before you spread your brains
all over the bedroom wall.

Your scent replaced
by the smell of detergent
spring fresh
in the middle of winter.
The shirt drops and
tears fall.

You left me spinning 

in an endless cycle of 

unanswered questions. 

_____________________________________________

September is National Suicide Awareness Month. 

I stayed with my friend, Sandy for days after her husband committed suicide. This is written from her point of view. 

The line about the brains on the bedroom wall is more blunt than I usually write, but Mike's death was so shocking to the people who knew him. I wanted to convey that somehow. 

Mike's death really hit me hard. He was my husband's best friend, and he was like a brother to me. 

This Valentine's Day marked 20 years of living with the unanswered questions. We will never know why he did it.  

Suicide is a sensitive subject, so if you don't want to read it, I understand.