Even After Me

Broody thoughts.
Are mine more morbid than most.
I sit at my desk, preparing to write,
when my gloomy mind detours.

Instead of writing a plot,
I wander, wondering how I would feel
if my husband found another
when I’m gone.

Would I want him to remarry
and tell this woman he loves her,
as he’s told me a thousand times?
Would I want him to care for her as he cared for me?

What if he loves her more
or cares for her more deeply?
I know the textbook answers.
I know what is considered right.

I sit and think about the words—the cliché
“I would just want him to be happy.”
But would I?
Would those words be true?

Am I a horrid person,
wanting to be the love of his life?
His only, his irreplaceable,
his reason for “no one else”

Would I want to know it or see?
Sometimes I think I couldn’t; I wouldn’t.
The pain would be too great.
I want to be his only, best, and last—his great.

I know it’s selfish,
Am I the only one who thinks this way?
I’m jealous, even now, for so many what-ifs.
It’s ridiculous speculation; I might not go first.

If I were he, would I want happiness again?
Then comes my somber awakening.
I wouldn’t want to be alone, uncherished,
to spend my remaining years unloved.

I wouldn’t, don’t want that for him, either.
I love him enough to want him deeply loved,
even after me, after we.
That is the depth of my love for him.

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