Grief

A tarnished belt buckle. A lock of hair. A half-used Chapstick.

The sound of music in the other room barely heard over the thrum of the kitchen fan. 

Steak is the prevailing scent of the day. No, not lamb. Beef. I said I'd cook lamb when you could run one down and bring it home.

The sound of your laughter chases me from my bedroom. Once yours.

The scent of McIntosh apples and ginger tea. 

Smoke fills the kitchen. Acrid and strong, forcing me to turn the fan up, drawing out your music.

Chocolate ice cream -- always.

But there are so many kinds. Which do I choose? 

None. There is no one to eat it. Not anymore.

I am weeping in the ice cream aisle at Kroger. Two girls with parakeet hair are watching me.

I leave without buying anything to sit in my car. Eyes too blurry to drive.

Watching the other shoppers -- dry-eyed walk by.

I wrote this three days after my mother passed last August, and I've only gotten the courage to post it now. It was a long four years of care. The level increased with each passing day. I'm still surprised by tears at random things. The rhubarb she loved and I don't care for is going crazy in the garden. The irises she helped me plant are waving in the breeze -- purple and yellow, and pink. I still can't make myself go down the ice cream aisle. The lambs at the farm I drive past each day make me smile. I miss her smile. Her searching eyes. Always looking for me. 

(Posted May 6th, 2025)