Each time I walk in,

I tell you my name.

“It’s Sherry” I say.

And moments from now,

it will be the same.

Tomorrow, when I enter

your room again—that half-grave;

It will be the same.


They told me

that once you begin to slip

all the time

you’ll altogether go away.

That there will be nothing left

but baggy, slouching skin,

and white eyes that simply reflect.


But you were different, I told them.


So for years,

I would bury you in pictures

and cook your favorite meals

and run to the closet

to dust off your favorite dress

in hopes that you would touch me—

That’s when I would rest my head

on your heavy shoulders

and graze your chest

with my arthritis hands,

and flash you our wedding bands so adamantly.


Yet, that couldn’t stop you

from becoming a moving statue.


“Come back. Come back.”

I used to kneel and shake your knees

like the branches shake

in the Fall wind.

But I found no fruit.

You were dead—just limply erect.

And no sum of water and salt

could revive you.

Sometimes I think of you in the other room,

Usually after the night has scraped my heart dry;

and rise to peep through the slit,

To see if you’ve completely sunken into the bed—

That I know will someday double as your ferry around

the Riverbend.


But you remain.


I know from your obnoxious snoring

That used to keep me awake

Before all of this—

I still remember sending you to the couch

when I couldn’t stand it anymore.

And how I would follow suit afterwards

To sneak into your arms

That always knew I was coming.


My lovely boy, that I chased around the school yard

into high school. Chased into the bedroom

after we wed. Chased through our new home

after you smacked my lower-half and laughed.

What I would give to see your wide smile

on your young face again, to look at me

as you did that first night we slept in your



But those memories happened long ago—

long before you forgot my name:



“No, it’s Sherry.” I say.

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Blackwingedbird's picture

Intense story, lovely.

Intense story, lovely.