The empty space beside her in the bed created a ritual
remembrance of his presence, embracing her every morning
with recollection of his skin and fresh realisation of her loss.
Contouring her body to a pillow didn’t replace his form, but
turning from the spot and rolling to her feet, into the day,
put behind her darker thoughts. Routine was her saviour.
Foot in front of foot, ablutions done, pot sizzling with caffeine-promise
as she practiced her daytime smile in the bathroom mirror – these
habits, rhythmic medicine, they served to hold her upright,
a marionette in her own life. A busy schedule was her puppet-master,
no room for gloom, for time wasted on the past.
It was only when the day was done that she reverted, withdrew
into still figure incomplete; never whole without the One.
[Copyright N R Nolan © 2015]