No coffee flavor wafts into the bedroom in the morning—
Cat fur coats his pillow—
The dinner dishes sit unmoved an hour later—
The small wad of cash in my purse is no longer enough—
It’s a darker dark when the power goes out—
Pockets have new purpose, holding keys and cash at times—
Short trips in the car increase threefold: his, mine and ours—
Cats now go in and out the screened porch door forty times a day—
Cell phone operation is still a mystery—
The GPS is comfort and a modicum of freedom—
Emma mysteriously appears before the first tear reaches the cheek–
A familiar voice on the answering machine says every day, “I’ll see you later.”
Yes, yes, you will.
A N H I N G A 
A hug for you from the bottom of my heart…
Ouch, I hurt for you! It’s gotta be hard!!!
I don’t know what to say except I love you. Thanks for being my Mom.
Your ache reverberates among us all.
There is nothing that can fill this particular kind of aloneness but may you find some solace in that others are holding you in their thoughts.
Thank you all for your comments.
leakelly – I’m so glad you said “aloneness” where so many would say “lonely.” I am alone, but not lonely. You are very perceptive.
I’m here too! I know what you mean.
I just got back to a very quiet house after being with all the family for so many days. The quiet seems louder and the aloneness more alone.
I’m here and I’m thinking of you and holding some positive thoughts for you…sending hugs.
Corina- a louder quiet says it all. I hope you, your mother and family will come through this stronger. I think of you all so often.
Oh my. My heart aches for you in your aloneness.
Please know that I am thinking of you.
*Hugs*
I don’t know what else to say. Sometimes words are too much, yet not enough.
With so many to tend to the grief of this poem, I want to acknowledge, a little, the skill of it.
Your use of small, personal details builds a picture of such overpowering emotion, that the simple fact of everyday physical objects- screen door, car-keys, answering machine- these almost fill the chest to bursting.
Your words are impossible to attain emotional distance from. I was relieved by the cat photo, by the cuddly, warm presence of them. I’m glad they’re there with you.
I don’t stop by here very often but couldn’t go on my way without saying just how affecting this post is. So many little things remind us of the enormous loss of loved ones.
My Mom says she continues to talk to Dad every single day and it been 5 1/2 years now since he passed. She asks him questions, tells him the family news, that he is missed, that she loves him.
Take good care now….
Again thanks to your all for your kind words.
Amuirin- Thank you for an insightful review of my thoughts. I really appreciate the compliment coming from you.
Norm – I do the same as your mom. Everything still gets discussed with my husband. I still do most of the talking. 🙂
I told Mom about your post and your final comment. She laughed and said that she now gets to get a word in ‘edgewise’. Dad was the extroverted talker of the pair.
Mom also said she completely relates to what you write here. The thing that provided some relief for her was moving house about 6 months afterward.
New beginnings after 50+ years of marriage.
You’re in a lot of people’s thoughts and prayers out here in the blogosphere.
Beda,
The best writers can say a lot with very few words. You nailed it when you told about Jerry’s voice still on your phone. Well done!