I wake up from my nap. The house is empty. You said you were going to the store, but that was many hours ago. In mind, when I awake, I become a widow. Upstairs, I empty the dishwasher with a widow’s grace. With widow’s weariness, I wipe the counters. I think of all the men, over years of marriage, I wished I could have fucked and now can. And then air pushes through the door. It is you. Your sweat. Your healthy grocery choices. Your reusable bags, full. I wipe away tears. I don’t want to be a widow anymore.

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Photo by Crystal Shaw on Unsplash