©2020 Susan Noyes Anderson
I wear your absence like a hat, too tightly,
its brim subduing light relentlessly.
Son-light, grown brighter from celestial moorings,
and yet at times so difficult to see.
The hatband grips my forehead, boa-constricting,
impeding thought but squeezing feelings free.
They dip and dive, loose feathers from the headpiece,
and where they land is unsolved mystery.
I put it on the day that you were buried,
a covered head as emblem of my grief.
Two years have come and gone; and it weighs heavy,
cruel crown that bends my mind and begs relief.
You are not here; I know that you are not.
Although, sometimes, your spirit heeds my call.
I know your absence, and I know your presence.
In truth, I need not wear this hat at all.
One day, I’ll knock it off and let it fall.
(Or hang it gently on a bearing wall.)