It is there when I wake up,
that deep ache in the narrow of my shoulders 
from changing a flat tire that night in the rain, 
angry at him, at myself.

Most days, it is buried so deep
it is not perceptible. 
But today, the pain is in every moving breath. 

This is the last of what he left me,
when he finally marched out 
to his other war.

In the decades since,
in the meandering of life’s bountiful progressions
all of the bruisings have been mended, 

save this one -- my pierced tissue
calls to me every other blue moon,
right here, beneath my right shoulder blade.

I roll over in bed 
and again teach myself, am kindly taught, 
I am sure not for the last time, 
how to heal.