I vacuum up the salt that’s fallen from his pretzels beneath the cushion of his leather chair. I dust the pile of magazines that have expired. It’s silent in the house, as if these things like laundry need be done alone. As if the whispers of the day should not intrude upon the solitude of daily, weekly, we’ve-run-out-of-this-or-that chores and checks to write for heat and electricity.
I tsk my tongue in wonder, then remember; he’s really left for good this time.
Susan Gibb is a reader, has-been publisher and editor, and writer of fiction and poetry in various form. Her work has appeared in The New River Review, elimae, Bewildering Stories, The Blue Print Review, and fourpaperletters among other fine literary journals.