She walked him to the bus again, watched him
clamber aboard in his camo fatigues,
dust-brown boots, huge khaki duffel slung
over his shoulder. She waved
as the bus pulled away.

Back at the house, she busied herself,
cleaned, tidied, swept, set the place straight,
vacuumed the gray pile carpet, hallway and bedroom,
rinsed the crumbs from his breakfast plate
            and washed the coffee cup that had touched his lips,
laundered the napkin he'd wiped his fingers with,
and sheets they’d made love and slept on.

She returned the extra chair to the dining room,
            the kitchen table to its corner and angle,
and threw out Sunday’s papers
            marred with marmalade and margarine.
She filled a jug from the cold faucet
to water the spider plant
            he’d said to sponge with a soap solution,
the gangly, green poinsettia
            he was surprised to see had survived till June,
and the African violet, still with note card
            in his faded scrawl.

Sitting in solitude in her silent kitchen,
            she thought of her mother.

Mom was a bundle of nerves after Pops shipped out
            that final time to Vietnam.
She cleaned house,
            clattered cutlery loudly in the kitchen sink,
            stripped bed sheets, filled the washing machine,
            ran the noisy vacuum
            a dozen times up and down the hall.

When there was nothing left to do,
she sat in the breakfast nook and cried.