The First Day Without You

There are no happy paw prints
in the fresh white snow outside the kitchen door.

A single silky strand of hair, tapering to red
that somehow landed in the middle of the dining table
will stay there. I will not brush it away to the floor.

After weeks of caring just for you
there is nothing in the day that needs to be done.

Your blanket, that still smells like you,
even the sickness, brings you back for just a moment
as I breath in deeply.

I pictured the flames burning the cancer cells and
I am filled with hate and revenge.

I eat my breakfast with the feeling of guilt
still sitting with me at the table.
For a month you would not eat.

I feel you coming into the room
and try to understand what you wordlessly convey.

I sit down with my coffee in the living room
and realize with a shock that I am sitting in your chair.
From here, you could see everything.

The clock says,"time for fluids and meds"
They sit on the counter with no purpose.

Your red and green plaid bed
with "Nick" stitched in gold lies on the floor
with the last of your weight a vacant fold.

The sun hits your lock of hair.
I kept the one little wavy piece you had.

Each poke, prick and prod
You said, "That was nothing"
With unique dignity and strength.

I hope the depth of my sorrow matches
the lightness of your release.