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The day after my mother’s funeral
Daddy quietly moved himself
out of the Master bedroom
and into the guestroom.
He never slept
in that Master bed
they’d shared
for 65 years
again.

Right after Daddy’s move
across the hall
he quietly cleared
the Master bedroom closets
and dresser drawers
of all my mother’s clothes.
He stuffed them
in huge trash bags
and drove them
to the Goodwill.

I silently watched him
moving purposefully
walking back and forth
across the hallway
then packing and dragging
big black bags to his car.
I was too angry
at his callous haste
to offer help
and too stunned to ask him
why so soon.
Was keeping busy
keeping him
from giving in to grief?

I spent sleepless nights
in that same Master bedroom
9 years later
when Daddy was in the hospital,
then hospice,
dying from sepsis
my ears waiting
for that inevitable call.

Just a week
after his funeral,
I was the one
clearing bedroom closets
and dresser drawers
and dragging bags and boxes
to my car.
Then I understood.