I Still Have the Tapes

I Still Have the Tapes 

He left messages while I was at work, like, 
“Truly madly in love with you–” But I liked it, standing in my 
tiny galley kitchen, the smell of the neighbor's roast rising,
squeezed into the corner that used to be a broom closet,
smiling at the answering machine.

I cooked then. I was vegan. I had cats. 
I hid notes in his bag when he traveled.
It was easy: Meals, jokes, sleepy pantomime.
But I just couldn’t care about his guitars
so I left his mother’s cousin’s diamond on his windowsill. 

Now he calls to tell me after two years of chemo
he's lacing up his old black Chucks and saying goodbye.
I scolded him for the time he made me watch 
Cleveland lose the World Series.
I told him to take care.

I still have the messages, the lacy tapes
turned white climbing the wet basement wall,
his sound a powder

– Teresa Kiplinger