Sentinels

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.

Confused dogs.

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.

 

 

You

Who to talk to about trivial stuff, idle chatter, observations.
No one listening when I walk through the door, excited about seedlings appearing.
No one to listen to. Your good day at work. Your pointless training day.
Silence.
Did you see that!?
Of course not, you’re not by my side. The Kingfisher is back on the canal.
I miss your voice, your laughter, the sound of something breaking in the kitchen.
Never thought I would want to hear the last one so much as I do now.
The seeds you sowed are all doing well, pigeons got the kale again though.
How many beans? That’s a lot for one person Sweetheart.
Hanging baskets, window boxes and pots. Done. Hope they are OK.
So much to tell you.
So much to ask you.
Silence

Silence

The torment begins with tea for one.
No conversation, no plans for the day ahead. Silence.
The space beside me mirrors the emptiness inside.
Reminders are constant throughout the day, no warning.
Tearful ambushes.
The clean and silent kitchen is eerily disturbing, no longer a friendly place.
Cooking is of little interest, eating a chore.
The day grinds on. Night beckons.
No hug, no kiss. No sleepy eyes staring back at me.
Darkness, silence and fleeting sleep.
Awake.
Repeat.