I remember the morning you left.
I heard you sing,
heard the see-sawing of the rocking chair
kiss the floor and pull away again.
I washed the calico-blue bowls,
letting the water ripple lazily over my skin,
listening to you in the next room.
The mid-morning sun was already sneaking
between the trees as I watched a bee dip
into a lily and bumble back out.
At this moment, I was full and hopeful and whole.
Within minutes, you were gone- lifted from my life
and carried in a box to the field down the road.
I was empty; missing parts of myself.
You didn't sing; I couldn't listen.
I burned your chair,
broke the bowls,
killed the bee.