I remember the last time I saw my two sons. Six and eight they were, and Sharie always said they were so like me, down to their eyes, mirror images of this man they called dad. I remember that last smile, hell I remember everything. Twenty years of being alone with only your thoughts does that to a man. You begin to remember the scent of your wife's perfume, even now I turn each time the smell of violets hits me. I search crowds for them. Those gap-toothed grins, golden blondie hair, combed just so, their mother said they watched me in the mirror, bringing my hair to that pitch I've loved since college. They wore every strand the same as me. They liked suits, because I liked suits. Baseball, basketball, football, they loved it all because they I saw I did too. I look for Sharie too, but I see her much more often. She's in every women that brushes me in the subway, every laugh that spills out, she's in every touch. These days I seem to smell violets everywhere.

The last time Sharie and I talked, we fought. Something I will always regret. The last time we went to bed angry, her scrunching herself into the tiniest peice of the mattress, me finally storming out, slamming the door, waking our sons, sleeping on the couch. I never knew. If I had known what would happen then what I know now, I wouldn't be here. But I also would have overcome any of that goddamn pride I mistakenly thought I was entitled to back then and apoligized. I would have begged forgiveness, got down on my knees, we would have spent that last night making love. But of course I didn't and the next day she was gone already to her friend Jodie's house, apparently to discuss my inadequecy as a husband, and I arrived late that day to the office, having had to drive my sons to school. I was mad most of that ride. Angry. But they made me laugh, promise to take them to the zoo that weekend. Was is it with kids and zoos? Why is it that all natural cure all? It doesn't matter. They left me all smiles. Already excited. They left me that last time. Their mother was to pick them up from school I told them, I be late, working at the office. I couldn't be there.

How was I supposed to know it was the last day I'd ever see those smiles, ever touch their hair, to hear those laughs. That last day. The day I died.