Looking at the lone house key on the mantle,
touching to maybe feel her warmth in the metal,
and I stand there by the heater,
holding this memento of her in my home,
of how she would fumble, push it into the lock
and open the door to my house and life.
Entering the calm, burgundy living room,
and she calls out to the cat,
"Roast Beef! come out come out you dirty cat!"
And she would start laughing at how she
could always surprise the not so regal cat of the house.
Or perhaps sneaking in, tip toe up behind me
as I worked at my desk, at my words and recipes.
Slowly, slinking, and then a shout "Heeeyyy!!"
and always I would jump,
and always I would turn and smile,
happy in the moments she made each hello
a gift of fascination, an event of joy.
And the key has no holder now, no soft hand,
no warm pockets to keep it company,
just the mantle, a collection of Bataille,
a black horse from my childhood and a string
of golden, shimmery, decorative stars.
Squeeze, lift it to the light, peek through
the ring hole at a photograph of her.
Tell myself, it's ok, don't worry, soon, soon,
thirty days away before she prances
into this dark study again,
thirty days away before the sun will shine
again in my winter without her,
and oddly, religiously, I set the key right
back where she left it, there above the heater,
next to a candle and a racing plastic stallion,
here in this house where there is so much more
to the world when she is in it.
