For my daughter, gone to be a soldier.

Small signs of you have lingered into summer.
the bookbag waiting by the front door,
the unopened mail stacked on the kitchen table,
the skateboard propped on the stair landing.

Up in your room, your sneakers, like always,
in the middle of the rug we searched one summer for.
Notes from friends,
the dream catcher you made in sixth grade,
the self portrait you drew last year
on the walls you painted pale blue, 
our compromise between black and pink.
A “Go Army” sticker, a camouflage bandana,
the ammo box from your grandfather,
the lingering scent of your cologne.

By the computer, homework that you meant to turn in, but forgot
and a stash of wildly folded assignments in math
you had no intention of completing. Ever.

I left the radio tuned to where you set it.
When I turn it on, Mason the Cat
gives me an odd look, then
goes back downstairs to lay by the kitchen door
to wait.

Dixie Linn-Norberg