Lida Lit Issue 03

Page 34

Renée Meloche Some days it just goes like


I pull myself sti from the mattress, put the kettle on for boiling, gather the washing rags, buckets, bleach, and open the shutters to greet the black morning sky. Curling tumbleweeds of hair and dust around my ngers like a wish, relief ooding the house as neatness, the curtains hanging just a little straighter. Micro ber hooks the top of your urn and I marvel at the interruption, the intrusion of your absence, as if it wasn’t part of the day before or the one before that. The dog is out in search of post-breakfast relief. I cast blurry eyes skyward. He’s eating strawberries from the patch, sitting in the dirt like he’s oh-so content there. I could join him for a moment. Time marches on. Some days obliterate, leaving only the urge to sink down and join you in the cold loam.






354 days of mourning