Quiet and Stillness
Dearly departed Wife,
Today it’s been two years since you left and I constantly notice the quiet and stillness in the house. I don’t hear your voice calling me, or your TV which was always too loud, or your snoring which you denied. I don’t turn the corner and see you. I only see you in scattered photographs, and images in my mind.
You haven’t complained nor complimented me in a while. I don’t see your dirty dishes in the sink, or dirty clothes in the hamper. Your collections of dolls and teapots still sit silently on their respective shelves. Your many boxes of yarn, and half-finished knitting and crotchet projects still clutter the house.
Your clothes and jewelry remain in your dresser and closet. Your bras, nightgowns, and robe still hang on hooks in the bathroom. I see them every day and every day I ask myself if this is the day I take them down and throw them away, but it never is.
You were disabled for a long time after the cancer got to you. I took care of you every day. When you could no longer walk, we turned the living room into a makeshift hospital room. That room is idle now. The hospital bed is pushed into a corner. The hoist that lifted you out of bed and into your wheelchair with its large battery pack is next to the bed. The giant digital clock that hung on the wall so you would know what time and day it was has dead batteries. Only the rolling table, which hung over your bed and held your food and drinks, remains in use. I’ve pulled it into my office and now it’s just as cluttered as my desk. Your TV’s screen remains black. We no longer watch TV together. I watch in the bedroom now. I feel sad and guilty when I watch a new episode of your favorite shows you will never see.
The doctor’s visits have stopped. I no longer schedule wheelchair vans to pick us up. Your prescriptions are no longer renewed. You were in constant pain. It’s been two years since you left and I hope you are now at peace.
Your urn, the only new thing I have bought for you since your passing, sits on your nightstand. When I first placed it there I looked at it and spoke to you a lot, but now I only speak to you occasionally. I glance over at it. I read its inscription. I wonder if you are watching me. I wonder when I watch TV in bed, are you watching your favorite show too?
The anniversary of us becoming a couple was a few days ago. When you were alive I always had to remind you. This time all I could do is remember reminding you in the past. I’ve lit a memorial candle for you. It will burn for 24 hours. It’s in the kitchen flickering silently. It’s so quiet and still now that you are gone.