It was as ordinary a day as a day can be now.
I had a bit of extra time since the nursery event
turned out to be next Tuesday so I stopped
for a coffee and was walking down Pacific
to the bookshop to read the last chapters
of the novel Unsheltered that disappeared
from my Kindle when the library loan expired—
it’s unsettling not to finish. What happened
with the woman who lay in the grass counting ants
after her man ran off with his mistress? What
about the couple, whose house crumbled bit by bit?
And the fate of the motherless child? Forget fiction,
isn’t everyone unsheltered—each with our own litany
of losses? I was thinking about mine
when I saw him across the street. A man
who looked exactly like my husband. Same build.
Same height. Same short gray and white hair
above a long neck. Same old school blue jeans,
leather shoes, collared shirt, wire-rimmed glasses.
Same length stride. And even the same damn
coffee cup. There was a jaunt in his step,
though, my husband didn’t have. I watched him
turn the corner and walk out of sight.
To almost see my husband. No—
to see my husband for the tiniest second
before seeing not my husband.
On an already lonely day after rains. I wanted
to lie down on the wet sidewalk. I wanted
to scream like I did that first night.
I pushed myself forward like a stern farmer
snapping the reins of the workhorse
on a cold morning, at the edge of a field
that needs to be plowed under.