28 May 2016, 10 days after Your death

By Daniel M Zibman

Pollen floats, settles on the deck,

driveway, cars, brick walkway

Footprints from the pups, tire tracks

The birdhouse, the one sitting in that space

of the pergola I built for You soon after we moved here

The one with the tiny roof coated in that thick,

black rubbery paint, an attempt to make it weather tight

The one that the wrens return to, and have,

spring after spring, their chattering song that You

loved so much that I recorded it,

played it to You while You lay dying

I cry out, anguish in my tears;

I reach, stretch out my arms, lift up my hands

There is no You, just photos:

on a beach, Your thick, full, flowing hair blown

to one side, waves making white;

You from an old passport, long before we met;

Us, at a wedding, summer, Your lovely shoulders that I adored so,

pearls looped gently around Your graceful neck,

Your smile,

Our shoulders are touching

I want to touch You, but can’t

All that is left rests in a container from the crematorium

There are memories, so many many

So many more tears to fall

fall

Daniel M Zibman is the grieving husband of a remarkable woman who died in 2016. He is a father of a darling daughter, father-in-law and grandfather. Daniel holds a BA in Religion and an MBA from Temple University. He was an amateur and semi-professional soccer player for twenty years and is a veteran of the US Army (1965-1968). Daniel writes from Princeton Junction, NJ.