Grief

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As if she were coming home tomorrow

Her shoes are still sitting in the bathroom,
right next to the scales,
as if she had just checked her weight,
as if she were coming home tomorrow.

Over there are her glasses,
laid aside the last time she finished reading –
her Bible, it turns out –
as if she were coming home tomorrow.

I sit and read and find something interesting,
turn to mention it to her,
then file it away for later,
as if she were coming home tomorrow.

While driving I hear a favorite song,
one of the ones played at our wedding
just a month or so ago,
and I think of her singing along and look forward…
as if she were coming home tomorrow.

Beside the bathtub are her favorite soap and scents,
something with vanilla and some flowers,
and I leave them there
as if she were coming home tomorrow.

There’s the brochure for the trip to England
we planned to take in the Spring,
a sort of honeymoon I still think about
as if she were coming home tomorrow.

Her library books are probably overdue,
but there they sit
on the shelf in the closet
as if she were coming home tomorrow.

I roll over in bed every morning
and reach for her pillow to touch her hair,
then shrug and weep and ache and sigh,
as if she were coming home tomorrow.

Then comes the reality of seeing her there
that night she left us here…

The silence and the horror and the fear come back
and no amount of reading or writing
can turn back time and help me wake up,
so I can really get through a day
as if she were coming home tomorrow.

At some point I’ll face it and find
that the echoes of hope so faint to me now
are louder than the memories of that night.

For now I will cling to the hope of Christ,
Whose love sustains and nurtures me,
and Who reminds me to live each day
as if He were coming home tomorrow.

© 2008 Glenn A. Pettit-Noel

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