by Sandra Douglas

Created on: July 27, 2007

Slippers

Light breaks through beveled glass
filling his slippers that lie in the hall.
The light shines down on them and they know,
he will not be home again.

The silence in the house is quelled
by the tapping of her heels on the hardwood floor.
She straightens the sleeve of his overcoat hanging by the door,
and touches his bible on the shelf.
Reading glasses lie on the table next to his worn chair by the window.
A leather briefcase stands ready at the desk
awaiting a Monday morning
that will never arrive.

Her eyes rest on his implacable image standing resolute in solid frame,
and beside his, hers.
So pristine the gloved hands folded serenely in front of her,
the way she was taught by the nuns.
The photographs sit firmly
on the mantle above a fireplace
that hasn't been lit
in years.
She swipes one finger across the shelf and it occurs to her,
she need never dust again.

Memories flow through her fingertips as she touches the accouterments
of his mortal life.
She does not miss him as much as she thought she would.
She does not treasure his life
the way she thinks she should.
For a wife doesn't grieve her dead husband's soul,
if she never knew
that he cherished her.

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