I come home to an empty house
Stunned and wild with grief
Disbelieving
In the bathroom I see his toothbrush
And shakily shove it in my mouth
It was his
It was in his mouth and now in mine
I suck hard and cry
Next to the sink are the breakfast dishes
I pick up his plate
And stare at the dried pattern of yolk
He made with his fork
He ate off of this
I want to smash it but
It is too precious now
I set it down carefully
On the hall table is the change
He emptied from his pocket last night
I count it out and memorize
Three quarters, six dimes, two nickels
I want to touch it but I won't
He touched it last and I don't want to spoil it
Instead I just hold my hands over the change
And think about it carried
Jingling in his pocket just yesterday
Warmed perhaps by his thigh or hand
Upstairs I crawl into our closet
To sit on his sneakers his dress shoes his boots
I pull his trousers close to my face
And wrap his sport coats around me
That Hawaiian print shirt over my knees
Like a blanket
The toothbrush that was in his mouth
Is in mine
I suck hard trying to get a taste
Desperate to get as close to him as I can
After an hour or two I no longer have
The release of tears
Only a dull consuming ache
And I'm breathing strangely
Around his toothbrush
I'm cramped and sore on his shoes
But unwilling to get up
Or let go
I wonder if the passage of time
Will ease this crushing hurt
Or soften the tragedy
But I realize that even infinite grief
Halved
Is still infinity.
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