by Sarah Kirchner ’21
He was filled with questions of “What if?”
Instead of “How are you?”
And so whenever I asked, “Where?”
He answered, “Why?”
Things digressed quickly.
Soon good-morning kisses switched
To low gurgling grunts.
He offered me a pat, if I was lucky enough.
Our home-cooked meals became his leftovers.
The smell of roasting coffee started to burn,
Along with the fire we once shared,
And the spark in his eye couldn’t ignite it anymore.
“How come?” I once asked.
His glare said it all. I knew to quiet down.
But then that night the car started up late,
And I prayed for him to never return.
It has been years since I heard one of his questions,
And since I made meals for two.
The indent in the bed is gone,
But I still listen for his car.