Absence of You

Your slippers remain by the bedside.

You should be fumbling to slide them on

and stumbling toward the coffeepot,

eyes half open, sleep not quite yielding to the day,

You couldn’t function, you always said,

Without at least two cups in the morning.

Dresses still hang in the closet.

There should be 15.

Two weeks’ worth without repeating, you declared,

plus the black one you saved for somber events.

Now only 14 dangle from hangers.

You should be wearing more than black… but you’re not.

Your favorite chair, now empty, still faces the west.

After coffee in the morning,

twilight was your favorite time of the day,

watching the sun as it set, giving way to the darkness of night.

Just now and then, there’s a gentle movement.

Is it you flitting by from wherever you’ve gone?

Gone with the Wind, open, face down, as you left it,

lies untouched on the side table near your chair.

After the sunset, you’d read two chapters

before trekking to our room and tucking into bed,

lying by my side, head on my shoulder,

as you drifted away to peaceful slumber.

Now there’s a thunderous vacuum of silence

occupying the space your voice once filled.

Your chair and slippers are empty, two weeks of  dresses unworn,

Gone with the Wind, unfinished, its binding strained and gathering dust.

Margaret Mitchell couldn’t have been more wrong.

Without you, tomorrow isn’t just another day.