And now I find the that November has bled into January,
the month of December having been forgotten almost entirely.
Six weeks are gone and still I am standing by your bedside,
staring dumbly at monitors I cannot read, praying.
On pleasant days I almost call you to talk about the air.
It’s so beautiful for January, I want to say, so warm.
Thanksgiving happened without you, and I barely ate.
Christmas was an afterthought; a weighted silence with pretty trees and melted snow.
The new year’s promise of excitement died before the clock struck twelve.
In my heart, it is still November, and I am in a white room holding your hand.
I hold my breath when I walk inside your house.
It is my house now, and my yard that’s been desecrated by these weeks of tireless snow,
But without you sitting in your spot on the couch, it cannot be home.
Without you it feels unfinished; a wooden box of empty that can never be filled.
I hear your voice in my head like an echo across a canyon,
A familiar sound receding, distorting ever more with time.
In a year or two it will be gone almost entirely,
a barely perceptible ripple in the water of a distant lake.