The Day After I Became a Widow

 by Alina Ayran

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That day after I became a widow,

I went about my usual routine:          

            I brewed two coffees in the kitchen,

            laid out a black polo fresh from the dryer,

            packed two lunches in divided containers,

            and let the dog out on the back porch.

 

But I failed to remember that my routine changed

yesterday at 7:26PM.

And it’s almost funny how I could ever forget,

 

The other coffee I brewed; two cream, two Splenda

            Will never be touched.

The black polo I laid out; men’s medium

            Will never be worn.

The second lunch I packed; an Italian sub with six orange slices

            Will never be eaten.

And the dog I let outside; routinely waiting at the back door

            Will never be let inside.

 

I never imagined grief in the shape of my husband,

at least, not this soon.

Only six months and twenty-two twenty-one days

I shared his last name.

 

It doesn’t feel right,

not only his absence-

or how the dog isn’t inside,

but how no one’s life changed

            but mine.

 

Because I no longer need to brew two coffees

or lay out a polo, or pack another lunch

but now I need to remember

how I still need to let the dog inside.

 

My path changes from the front door to the back.

A soft clck as the door swings open,

the soft breeze a guest brought by the dog

that pads its way inside and I stare.

 

Stare out onto the lawn that the dog unchangingly

visits every morning. To appreciate the home,

the life we have built within it, and the love

that I must now maintain.