Warmth of You

The sheets are cool, his old bones ache more than they used to. Somehow the pain, in a twisted way, is welcome, somehow it reminds him that he is alive.

He lays in the quiet and the old clock in the kitchen clicks off a second, and another, and another and his mind drifts to the memory of her. Memories of nights just like this; only her warmth was here then.

That delicate warmth that wasn’t there at first when she got into bed but would always drift like a fog across some far horizon, seep through the fibers of the fabric and engulfing him an inch at a time.

She has been gone awhile now and still in the middle of the night he’ll pull the blankets over her side to keep her warm. Some nights he recalls in the midst of doing this that she is never coming back.

All he can do is suppress the pain that’s just beneath the surface of his skin like some deep dark pond of suffering. As he drifts back to sleep he often feels her warm and hears her whisper
“It’s okay I’m waiting for you; I’m always near the pond.