The last year

The house was dark. I rode home alone.
Thinking, just maybe my body was wrong. Jean might be there.
A year ago, though fading fast. She waited for me at home to appear, to glimpse the fading memory of our life that was past.
Her kitchen ritual included waiting for me with a tasty Jean special.
Some kind of fabulous concoction of scraps left in the fridge mixed with veggies sautéed in olive oil.
We did so enjoy the evening light at home. Lounging on the screened in front porch. Reading, touching, finishing the day. Gentle conversation. Nothing powerful or profound, just a man in love with my beauty. 31 years deep.
Now silence. The kitchen in disarray. The refrigerator bare. The piano room sits quietly begging for attention. I can’t even bring myself to dust it. A year’s gone by but the same sheet music’s there. She left it without knowing it was her last chance to play. No music. No laughter, Nothing to share. The widower sits alone in the same leather chair. Remembering sweetly, a life, lived so full. Now empty. Now longing for Jean’s tender soul.

A years almost passed. Next Tuesday in fact will be a milestone of sorts the counselors say. It’s passing will be a blessing for me. The last year? I can’t wait for it to be a dim memory.