Across the Table (Poetry)

I still see the dark grain of that table -
its wood stained, marked with daily use,
where we sat together, staying behind
while the others went to the funeral.

The TV was on, the volume quieter
than on most afternoons, some small respect
for the occasion, as the cats slept he sifted
through the contents of a cardboard box.

Oddments, treasures lifted to the light
and squinted at through bifocals,
his fingers clumsy with tie pins, cufflinks
that were once his brother's.

He coughed, wheezing, chesty, sometimes
grunting as though in recognition,
forgetful of me, his mind drifting,
while I wondered, unable to ask.

Those few hours were the last
we shared alone, winter sun through
yellow curtains, the gas fire popping,
the TV's comforting, familiar drone.

We barely heard the gate click as they returned,
crowding the too-small room, he glanced
across at me, his expression changing
as he closed, secured the worn lid with string.