Some Quiet Release

After Father passed, the couch became

a sagging raft of plaid where she drifted,

no longer shuffling the hall to their bed. 

Maybe it was the silence, or some quiet

release, a way to slip memory’s weight.

I never asked. She never said. Her leg,

raw with ulcers, kept her tethered,

slow to mend; while the dog,

a sharp-toothed shadow curled

at her knees, kept her warm against the ache.

I still feel that nip, a quick burn, like love

that doesn’t mean to wound. We sat in

the TV’s glow as Uomini e Donne chattered,

and Nudo e Crudo flickered, lives she’d never

chase. Her laugh would rise, a sound I cradle now,

smooth as stone in the palm. I want to ask

if the couch felt like freedom, or just a place

to wait, as days thinned like leaves in late

autumn. The cushions still hold the shape

of her. I run my hand across the fabric,

searching for warmth that used to live there,

finding only the ache of all I didn’t say.