The Widow

He still fills her housecoats on cold nights. The cat will always be the shadow of his hand. He dwells on in this home as a recycling of images that she swirls now with a finger in the kitchen sink while cleaning the china plates he once bought for her. He still molds his shape in the stained fabric of his recliner. His presence decorates and remodels her un-passing thoughts. The widow mourns, not at the cemetery, but from the other side of a double bed. She acknowledges new days and their empty dawns by arranging once shared nick-knacks by not touching them at all. She does however place some sepia moments in a shoe box he had provided before the days turned colorless.