FOLDING FITTED SHEETS

All day today, while I was at the training for ushering at football games, I found myself thinking of Gwen; wishing she were waiting for me at home.  Getting in my car to drive home this afternoon there was that almost guilty feeling that there was really nowhere I needed to be.   The day went OK; people treat me a little differently now that I've been "promoted" to the position of assistant supervisor--they tell me things they think I want to know, ask for favors--I want to scream at them that none of this really matters, but I don't.  I have no way of knowing what ghosts walk with them. 

Tonight has been a good night for listening to sad songs, and that's what I've been doing in addition to finishing up the laundry I started this morning.  Here's a poem I wrote about it:

FOLDING FITTED SHEETS

I think of her always

even while I’m folding clothes

the way she taught me;

except for fitted sheets,

she took that secret with her. 

It’s what made her perfect for me,

taking care of complicated things

like folded sheets:

here, John, I can do it,

she often said,

and I let her, and she did,

and my life was more complete.

Now she’s the fitted sheet

that some say needs to be

neatly folded away.

What am I to do?

The corners don’t match,

there’s a sag in the middle,

I don’t want to fold it neatly,

tuck it away in a drawer somewhere;

after all, the sheet sleeps with me

every night.

John A. Bayerl, July 30, 2011

Thanks, Dear, for leaving these memories of  you that now keep me going.