In the Grieving More

Handsome, lost his wife at 69, began 
his days sitting in his chair,
staring at the pair
of his slippers,
as if they were her on the first day he met,

dazed by her beauty. Dark spots appeared 
on his face, mushrooms of sorrow,
that would last unknown tomorrow;
deep wrinkles guided the invisible 
tears toward the corners of the mouth. When

the nephew called him, he'd lift his head, eyes 
gazing blankly toward him. Nephew offered,
"Let's go for a stroll." But he preferred 
dropping his head in silence. "Go fishing then."
His head remained as Thinking Man.

He was glued to the chair most of the days.
One day he freed himself from the chair
and asked, "Is my woman still at Computer Repair?"
Nephew sighed. "No. She's visiting her mom and dad."
"When she's coming home?"

"She's taking it forever, uncle."
"Tell her to hurry.
"don't scurry."
Every day the same conversation he would repeat,
eat, and sleep as he used to,

until one day: he lay on the dandelions in his lawn,
watched the clouds; he appeared to have no more pain.
The couple's urns have lain
side by side above the mantle, like they used to sit
on the deck, side by side. 

© Byung A. Fallgren