I’m not moving anything of hers.

Nothing.

Not her silk and lace undies,

mixed, haphazard, among my boxers,

her sexy idea of “Fashionista Foreplay”

in the top drawer of my dresser.

No, not even her photo

on my wicker bed-stand.

(Even the selfie she took herself is Art.)

Technically,

not “hers”, but of her, she gave it to me, so mine.

But as she used to say, before she was gone…to…?

“Prepositions don’t matter, much. Nor modifiers.”

(She was always my first listener.)

And they have not, since that funeral director said his peace

when she was gone, all ready…

(Foolish! Foolish man!)

Because, whenever we used to talk,

practically,

as we aged through our 60’s and our 70’s

about dying,

always, she’d smile her lovely,

wicked grin

and say, “You know, Darling,

ultimately,

anyway, I’m going to leave you!”

And I’d say,

to make a joke of something

I can’t make a joke of, anymore,

“Not if I leave you first!”

and she’d laugh that bell-tone laugh of hers

and say, “You’ll never leave me,

first, it would just kill you to…!”

You know… We’d banter.

And she was right and it would

and I never would because I couldn’t

so she did, first.

And I’m not moving anything of hers, still.

Not even her favorite wooden spatchler

she’d use’d to use

to make scrambled eggs, wet,

with frazzled baloney on Sunday morning

dressed only in her filmy, silk, red slip

after a wondrous warm Saturday night

not going anywhere but to bed

but going off and on and in, her and us.

I even wasn’t going to write

this

because I am invited for supper

at our friends house next door

and didn’t want to be late,

but I wrote this, anyway,

desperately,

to not forget her more.

My neighbor will keep the pasta warm

for me

and she will sit,

silently,

to be with me while I eat and,

probably,

sob.

See?

There are things I have

to do

to remember her

that are more important than anything,

even breathing.

Besides,

the neighbors pasta is good.

but it isn’t

hers.