Alone In The Sun

He died on a spring morning, just as 
fresh hope filled the air for everyone else. 
 
I was shrouded in shocking 
disappointment and annihilating loss. 
 
How could he take his heartbeat, which 
belonged to me, and just shut it down?

How could he take his strong 
embrace—that fit only me—away? 
  
How could his soft smile break 
and his dancing eyes close indefinitely?

Side by side, we faced the world, 
our joys and sorrows perfectly shared.

How could he be without breath today 
while I still have mine?

I stand alone in the sun, aghast to see 
that even his shadow is gone.

—even his shadow is gone!

Where is the smell of smoked meat
over cedar that lingered in his hair?

Where is his warmth, the soft 
sound of his voice as he cozied up to me?

Why, when I need his words, is there 
only silence—no rhythmic banter?
 
Where are the sounds of his car, footsteps 
to the door, and his shout “Hey babe, you home?”

Why can’t I call him and hear his laugh,
get his advice—ask where the key to the shed is?

How will I live with just my half of us?
Who will catch me when I fall?

Something is supposed to transform 
anguish into wisdom, like an oyster’s 
suffering produces a pearl.

But he died on a spring morning, just as 
fresh hope filled the air for everyone else.

I stand alone in the sun, aghast to see 
that even his shadow is gone.
—even his shadow is gone!