Keith Klovee-Smith

   Their Mother’s Clothes 

I came into the room as sisters flipped a coin for their mother’s clothes.

They laughed and cried as memories flooded forth.

Selection would by stopped by “oh no,”

the Parkinson’s tremor had dropped food between plate and mouth.

They laughed and cried as memories flooded forth.

Slowly laughter would return with fake or real competition for clothes.

Selection would be stopped by “oh no.”

Bags for Goodwill grew one, two, five to be reborn for someone else.

The Parkinson’s tremor had dropped food between plate and mouth.

Slowly laughter would return with fake or real competition for clothes.

Bags for Goodwill grew one, two, five to be reborn for someone else.

I came into the room as sisters flipped a coin for their mother’s clothes.

 © Keith Klovee-Smith (October 2024)

    Nearly A Year Since Your Death

I’ve pressure-washed the deck,

rolled on a new stain,

cleaned the garage, the places we stockpiled.

I found winter hats, gaiters long buried, 

and all your scarves, all your scarves.

The loveseat, living for years in the garage,

dragged to the end of the driveway – 

a burden of the collected, lifted, freed,

and yet you still live in every nook.

No death cleaning moves any part of you.

I know you chose to leave

and I in my ignorance supported the decision,

not knowing your final wishes would not liberate, 

but leave me increasingly

with memories of a life lived in color,

with grace, attended by flowers.

© Keith Klovee-Smith (August 2025)

  She Died

The dogs looked at me as I left

but I told them I could do

nothing about their grief.

I forgot the drug store,

ended up buying a book

but needed cold medicine.

 © Keith Klovee-Smith (October 2025)

    To Grief

I find it so curious that

I have come to welcome grief,

almost like I’m forced to remember,

given a roll in joy that brings pain, 

and pain welcoming joy.

Don’t tiptoe around me.

I don’t care if you have the right word,

because then I would have

missed the hug from Eunice,

the Starbuck’s barista,

or from my lightly-known neighbor, 

who on my walk

took time to open his heavy gate

so he could envelope me in warmth and love.

I would have missed the humanity

of the call representative comparing 

the passing of his dog last year

to the death of my wife of fifty years. 

So awkward, yet so kind,

and who am I to create a grief scale?

I am sorry for your loss. Thank you. 

I am sorry for your loss. Thank you.

An instant, gentle bath of love.

So do I stay in grief to remember,

or to be enlivened by the tenderness of others?

I welcome grief.

I invite the rawness, 

the openness to new experiences and people.

Truly my cosmic egg has cracked.

Who knew the possibilities?

I am being cooked, whisked, folded into 

unexpected ingredients of life.

© Keith Klovee-Smith (March 2025)