Here is a poem I wrote about a woman missing her deceased husband and he came to call.
By Theresa Gage
She journeyed to his study for the hundredth time today,
Sure she heard him calling to pick up his tray,
But it’s only the knocking of rain on the windowpane.
Her eyes gazed at his jacket, lying in his chair,
And she rubbed his rough sleeve across her hair,
Finding comfort and not so alone,
As she inhaled his pipe tobacco and his Old Spice cologne.
She brewed a pot of coffee,
Strong the way he liked it,
Even though she preferred tea.
She waddled over and clicked on the T.V.,
To the sports station she endeared the past twenty years.
She doesn’t have the energy for things woebegone,
As she sighs at his tangled fishing gear and his projects left undone.
She toddled to the kitchen and tied up her hair,
Then placed his plate next to his dining chair,
And proceeded to cook his favorite dish
Of fried potatoes, onions, and fish.
He’s been gone over a year, but she waits near the door,
As the clock struck the hour of four.
With the tail of her apron, she wiped her eyes,
And glanced outside.
To her surprise, he appeared once more,
And she flung open the door
And he walked inside.