My husband
didn’t change
the laundry over.
That’s all.
He’s asleep,
burrito’d into a fuzzy blanket, oblivious
to the world around him.
My world.
So I chose
To go downstairs.
To my grandmothers bed.
Which,
six months later,
still smells like her.
I wish I
couldn’t feel.
Couldn’t sit here,
drinking her in
while wondering
what exactly
about her
wrinkled, knowing smile
that I’m forgetting
at
this
very
moment.
I need a goddamn hug.
A whisper and a cuddle.
Someone to wipe my tears away
and tell me that she loved me,
she cares,
that this pain isn’t without reason
or without end.
But I hate to wake up valuable, contributing members of society.
Not for me.
Not for this.
All he had to do was change the laundry over.
Then maybe I wouldn’t be
percolating
in snot and tears.