The evenings are the worst of times.

The lights go on in the houses across the street.
People bustling around inside preparing to
enjoy the quiet time of togetherness.

Not here. The evenings are the worst.

Nobody to argue with. Nobody to agree
with. Nobody to cuddle up with.
Nobody to cook for.

I can't wrestle for the remote alone.

Six years and I still can't watch Jeoparday.
You knew almost all the answers.
I know none anymore.

There's no one but me to build a fire.
I don't know how to stack the logs.
The electric bill is out of sight,
literally, I don't want to look at
the cost of heating with electricity.

But I don't know how to build a fire.

I hope you're warm floating on your cloud above.

I made you a birthday cake today. Your
favorite chocolate chip with double chocolate icing
and the raspberry filling.

There's no one to eat it but me. I had a
slice after dinner and tossed the rest.
I know, you'd scold, wasteful, you'd say.

My god, how I hate widowhood.

And the evenings, they’re the worst of times.

© Marcia Miller-Twiford