When He Is Gone

He'd still be here, in the cup of coffee, in the bed reading the newspaper, in the garden walk outfit - his version of a gym thirst trap.

He’d still be here to ask if I’d eaten, to pretend he didn’t know what I was knitting yet keep sending me references from Pinterest, or whatever is trendy in those days.

He’d be in every lame joke, his laugh echoing when I watch something not me-funny, but him-funny.

He’d still be here to hold my hand at the dentist. He’d still be in the walls, listening to my every breath, my silent tears and whispering that He is here for me.

He’d still be here, scolding the kids, scolding the maid.

H’d still be here to tell me I look beautiful in the morning, even with white hair. So beautiful.

He’d still be here to say, “It’s mango season”, to introduce me to indie songs and to show me pictures from his college days. He’d be here to protect me, to love me, to sleep peacefully beside me.

And the day he is not here? The day I forget his voice? The day I forget his laugh?

That will be the day I’ve already crossed over. Meeting him. Hearing him. Smelling him again.

Like no time had passed between us.