I originally started this poem a long time ago, during a time when Hubby was gone, probably out of the country without me. I recently tweaked and “finished” it. Turns out, it’s not just long absences that make me miss Hubby. The four hours he’s gone to teach his class one night a week seem like an eternity. Especially tonight, when I’m feeling icky and kind of wish he was here to love on me. Or at least make me some soup.
I don’t know what happened. I used to be so darned independent. By which I mean I used to spend a lot of time by myself. And I was (mostly) fine with it. It’s not like we spend every second on top of each other when we’re both here. He’s usually in his room, and I’m here in mine. (Okay–unlike him, I don’t get my “own room.” My space is parked on the couch with my laptop and/or TV. So I’m super productive.)
But he’s here. And that somehow feels different.
I am alone in the house we share,
two bodies bound to bump into each other,
bound to touch, given enough time
and movement, given the closeness
of these rooms. We cannot pass
in the hallway without reaching out.
We cannot love each other without touching.
But here I am, putting away the dishes
we share, glasses and forks
that have touched each of our lips,
the tinny clang of silverware
being sorted into a drawer, so loud
in the silence of our house without you in it.