You left the door
of your washing machine
wide open.


I noticed that
when we fetched
your clothes
the following day.


You never did wear them;
after your death
we took them away.


I guess you, like me,
my son, thought you'd
return that day
to close the door
and carry on
with the wash.


You never did
return to close
the door or do
your wash again;
you thought it
was an old
problem returning,
a similar pain.


Your flat is rented
by some other now;
all your worldly goods
divided like
the cloth of Christ,
but with a sadness
and hurtful feel
handling your things
after your demise:
books, clothes,
CDs, DVDs,
hats and coats.


Seeing them again,
my son, brings lumps
to ours throats.


I wish I’d stayed behind
that night, not left,
thinking all'd be
all right.


What was it like,
those last hours,
when we weren't there?


I closed the door
of your washing machine;
a scent of you
hanging in the air.

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