Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Fruitless Suffering

Why do I presume to believe
that by asking him,
“What happened?”
I am like a surgeon opening up a wound?
Perhaps he is not like me
and has not sat around in his pain
allowing it to fester
year after fruitless year.
Perhaps the loss of his wife is no more painful
to him than losing a pair of good shoes
or a favorite baseball hat.
I’m sure he will tell me losing his dog
was worse.
Maybe he is just as content to lie in the sun
alone
as he was to lie with her.
I don’t know.
But I automatically assume that everyone who lost someone
has to be suffering as much as I was.
What if I am the one who is wrong?
Maybe he is fine.
Maybe he will tell me he never really loved her
all that much anyway
and that he’s better off now.
He’s free.
He can leave his shoes out and his underwear on the floor
and a wet towel on the bed
whenever he feels like it.
He can see old friends and travel to L.A.
and read the New York Times till noon every Sunday.
He can leave his dishes in the sink for three days at a time,
even the ones with egg on them,
and wash the darks with the whites
and forget to dust,
and curse and burp and fart
as loud as he can.
He doesn’t have to see her family or listen to her sister’s gossip
or pretend to like her parents.
He doesn’t have to wonder where she is when she goes on her early morning jogs,
or when she’ll be home from Spanish class.
He can shut the door now
and not have to lock it
when he goes to the bathroom.
And he’s got the phone numbers
of seven blondes
he met at the grocery store
this past week in the produce aisle.
Yes,
the sparrow still is a young man
even when he has stopped
singing.