The day after the funeral,
the apartment remembered what it used to be.
The kettle boiled on schedule,
steam rising like it had somewhere to go.
The fridge hummed its low, steady song,
faithful, indifferent, cold
The chair in the corner
held no weight,
but the cushion still bore the shape
of a body that would not return.
On the table,
a mug stood half full,
lipstick faint on the rim,
a small, stubborn proof that
time does not clear everything away at once.
Outside, the street was busy
with ordinary courage:
children arguing over a ball,
a bus sighing at the curb,
someone swearing at the traffic light
as if red were their greatest loss.
Inside, the clock kept moving
like nothing had happened.
It ticked and ticked,
each second a quiet betrayal,
dragging me further from the last moment
you were here.
I washed the dishes
as if that were enough
to put the world back in place,
but the plate grew slippery in my hands
and I had to sit down,
because even the water
felt too loud.
There was no wail of violins,
no storm splitting the sky.
Just a sink, a chair,
and the sound of my own breath
proving, against my will,
that I was still alive.
With gentleness,
Ruthie
If your own day after looked different, another country, another loss, another kind of goodbye, the ache beneath it is something we share. You are not strange for feeling stuck there sometimes. That day does not have to be your whole story, but it is allowed to matter.
Next Thursday, a reflection.