I have become the age
when the photo of my husband
on the wall above my desk
can suddenly make me cry
thinking about how I will
look at it one day
and want so much to talk to him
after he is gone.
Even though he’s downstairs now
working on his novel
and I can hear him
chastising himself
for snacking again
after brushing his teeth.
But even his closet
looked sad to me today
and I could see
I will be that person
who can’t open it
for years.
Or maybe I would sleep
under a pile of his shirts
and put them all away
every morning
so my kids never
found out.
He comes upstairs
with his laptop
and he shows me a funny clip
of a new show
and I laugh too
trying not to think
about how so many people
quietly ache
to relive
a moment
so ordinary.