16 Foot Diesel Box Truck

I left him.
I did it.
Myself.
With infection well established in my lungs.
When my friend's mother died that morning,
I had no one left to help.
I went on.  Picked up the truck and drove there alone.
Even in the face of sickness and death, he only
reluctantly agreed to help a little,
but said he wouldn’t let his friend do much.
Staring down the task before me,
I’d thought maybe I’d rather just die;
let the bacteria fill my lungs with fluid
until I drowned there, in the upstairs bedroom.
The dam behind my eyes nearly broke,
but I went on.

I patched it quickly, took strength
from the pressure of that water,
turned to the bureau, said,
I guess it's just me and you, kid.
took out all eight drawers, upturned it,
and the dresser and I made our way
down the stairs together.
He helped with the heaviest boxes
and most of the furniture, then watched
expressionless, drinking beer in the garage as
the house that was now only his emptied:
The couch I picked out
our pots and pans
the decor he said he never felt a part of
the peace lily from his papa’s funeral
my clothes, and finally, me.
We all left.

The silverware stayed
with the dining room table and what was left of the dishes.
I didn’t want those at my new house. 
They matched all the bowls and plates
he smashed into the sink and
the coffee mugs he threw at me.
I left his anger there.
I left mine with it.
I went on,
apologizing to my pneumonic lungs as I
lunged breathlessly in and out of the truck
with boxes of books,
a pile of dresses still on hangers,
the lamp I traded for two sweaters,
picture frames mostly lacking glass,
my dad’s heavy toolboxes.

In and out, back and forth, up and down --
the repetition lulled me into understanding
soothed me into compassion.
When the truck was full, I
ran behind the garage
stood on tiptoes and pulled the
branch of a tall lilac bush within reach.
I snapped a few twigs
until I had a decent bunch
added some lillies of the valley,
went to the kitchen and did all his dishes
one last time.
I filled the mason jar with water
and set the flower stems to swimming.
I put them next to the clean dishes drying in the rack,
took out a pad of paper and wrote
Peace Offering.

I ran to the truck, clapped on the padlock
climbed in, slammed the door, slowly pulled away.
I went on.
The song in my head played,
So long, it’s been good to know ya,
So long, it’s been good to know ya.
Had the truck been more responsive to my mood,
I think it could have flown.
I drove that 16 foot diesel box truck
to my new house in the city, where my
mom was waiting.
We were unloaded and unpacked by midnight.
I go on
because that’s all there is to do, because
that is progress, because
that is hope.

I used to say I love you to a man.
Now I've gone from him.
I look around at all I've done,
all I have the potential to do
and though I used to say I love you,
now, I need only say
I love.