Your father always helped me make the bed;
his bony hands would snug the sheets up tight.
I know now, how much was left unsaid.
Fluff the pillows and straighten out the spread;
Smooth his side in the morning quiet.
Your father always helped me make the bed.
His memory is a place, I dare not tread.
Eight months I’ve pushed his absence from my sight.
I know now, how much was left unsaid.
I wish I hadn’t lived inside my head;
stubbornly withdrawing, I’d take flight.
Your father always helped me make the bed.
We lay together at night with books we read,
he’d sigh and give me one small kiss good night.
I know now, how much was left unsaid.
I woke today familiar with this dread;
reached for him in the gathering light—
Your father always helped me make the bed;
I’d tell him now the words I left unsaid.
