Home Alone, by Diane Webster

Diane Webster

The house smells like her letters
when I used to live without her.
Her afghan lies on the couch
with the pillow cupped for her head;
a bookmark flags the page last read;
a water glass trembles half full, half empty.
I lie on my side of the bed listening
for snores reassuring
that all is safe in the night
until sun rises morning after morning.

Author’s Comment: This poem was also part of the long poem I tried to get published. So many reminders of a person are left behind when they leave. One evening I came home, and the house smelled like the person I live with, like the letters I used to breathe in as soon as they arrived. I woke up during the night and noticed how comforting I felt when I heard snores. And how one day I was going to have to live this way, alone.

Bio: I try to stay observant of life whether it be everyday events or drives in the mountains where I look for wildlife and scenery to inspire my writing. I work in the production department of the local newspaper office. My poetry has appeared in “The Orange Room Review,” “Illya’s Honey,” “The Hurricane Review” and other literary journals.

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