Packing the Car

he packs the car with memories
his, not mine
in crates and boxes he takes
from the house like evidence
removed from the scene of a crime

I watch as he stands back
surveys his work
his eyes narrow
and he leans into the car
adjusts a box this way
turns another on its side
making everything fit
making room for
just one more

as I watch him I remember
the first jigsaw puzzle we did together
I kept putting his hand on the right piece
showing him how best to place it
here
or here
until he frowned and said
he could do it himself
and did

I stand aside
watch helplessly
as books stream from shelves
into boxes, out the door
and I envy them their invitation
to accompany him on this journey
to the rest of his life

gradually I’ll notice little things
the phone will stop being for him
there’ll be one less toothbrush
by the bathroom sink
and milk will last longer than a day

but right now
the dog who’s famous
for her big brown eyes
closes them tight
when he says goodbye
and her tail droops
lower than my heart
as tires crunch
against the gravel in the driveway
and he drives off
into the late summer morn