Cherished quilts in her cedar chest.

Autumn-Winter dresses in her closet.

Medical books on her desk.

Her stuff –

without her.

What can he do with all of it?

Any of it?

Can’t leave it

there.

Can’t sell it.

Can’t wear it.

Stuff.

Just stuff.

But some shadows are too heavy.

Some tears are too many.

What’s to be done?

Can’t give it away.

A visit from the Salvation Army truck

would shatter him.

Their kids have taken home

all the momentos they cherish.

What’s to be done with the remains of remains?

Her silk panties, soft to the touch,

neatly rolled in her dresser drawer.

Her electric tooth brush.

Her lavender scented shampoo.

Her bottles of Youth Dew.

Her hair on her pillow.

Her hair around the shower drain.

He doesn’t like chocolate.

She loved it.

What to do with half a chocolate cake in their fridge,

a still sealed gallon of Heavenly Chocolate ice-cream in the freezer?

What to do with her quivering, brave smile

hanging in his heart?

Her last kiss still on his lips?

His tears,

still

on his cheeks?