Another Saturday night in a quiet house. Another silent kitchen.
No Craig Charles, he will have to do without me. No bopping or beer.
Global knives stand like silent sentinels in their block.
No slicing, dicing or chopping. Pans remain empty, no cooking here.
The kitchen, once the hub of the house, now a cul-de-sac.
Time heals, yes, I know, I have been healed before. This time it is very personal, very.
My days are daze. My hours are no longer ours. My weeks are weak.
I miss the hand to hold. The smile will always be there, in the pictures, in my eye. But the hand to hold has gone. The hugs, the cuddles, gone too.
I miss. We miss. You miss. They miss.