I keep the window she
used to crack open, even
in winter.
Not because I think
she'll come back through
it, but because closing
it would mean admitting
she's gone. The curtains
still move the same way —
a small, polite breath
— and for half a second
each morning, I almost
call her name.
The house has learned to
be quiet without her. So
have I. We sit together
at dinner, the empty
chair and me, both
pretending this is
normal. I wash one mug
now. I leave one light
on.
Some people say grief
gets smaller with time.
Mine just learned to walk
softer, so I don't
always hear it coming.
Tonight the window is
open three inches. The
cold slips in. I let it
stay.