The Ritual of Missing Her
With all of his being, he loves her… Before losing her, and after.
Grandfather sits alone once more by the old fireplace. He reads the newspaper with unwavering attention. He prepares tea, still for two. In his own cup, he adds three spoons of sugar, while in the other, just one. Then he makes buttered bread—two slices. All of this has been his morning ritual, both before and after losing her.
He worries…
He grieves…
He aches…
He regrets…
Yes, he regrets every single moment spent without her, knowing well that the past cannot be reclaimed…
He cannot bring her back…
Nor will he ever see her warm smile again…
Nor can he trace his hand through her hair…
No, he does not harbor anger.
He never speaks ill of any quarrel…
Because he loves her…
With all of his being, he loves her…
And he does not hide it…
Never has, for his heart has always overflowed with this feeling…
Both before losing her and after.
Indeed, he suffers…
He bears the weight of every pang of his heart…
Experiences it all anew…
Feels it all afresh…
Yes, he aches…
Every white-dawned night brings pain,
And every tear born of sorrow burns…
Yes, he runs…
He runs to escape the weight of yearning…
It is evident, all of it reflected in his eyes…
Still, two teaspoons of sugar,
Still, buttered bread,
Still, the fireplace and the chair…
Yes, he loves her…
With all of his being, he loves her…
Before losing her, and after.
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