making dinner

Chopping onions
for when he gets in
The house feels quiet
like it might afterwards
An accident say, or a heart attack
something sudden, with no pain, no...hanging on

The house would be full of colourful
perfumed sadness for weeks
The half light of darkened windows
would stain the rooms like tinted glass
or old mirrors reflecting candlelight
People would call, be kind, bring gifts
I'd dab, with new lace trimmed linen

I'd spend precious evenings alone
listening to our (my) favourite songs
or watching period drama, reading novels
or writing poetry - to keep busy, you understand -
consoling myself with wine and happy memories

Eventually, I'd be invited out for meals or to see films
- to bring me out of myself - shocking jokes or excess gaiety
would be overlooked, forgiven, taken as a sign

Once a week, I'd buy freesias (my favourites)
and stroll through beech dappled, daisy shot grass
to pay my respects from that convienient bench
which catches the sun and faces the spire, the spinney, the hills
'She was devestated' they'd say...
His key turns the lock and raw meat cringes in the pan