After my husband died, I did noteat anything for two days.
Hunger felt familiar after years of marriage to an echo.
On the third day, I just wanted to make a simple meal.
I had no pasta, no fine bread,just American cheese, a garlic clove,
and one fucking egg. He had left itfor me, along with his yolk-crusted
pan soaking in the sink. The last argument.In his dictionary, underneath the word
“consideration,” he saw one pale eggnestled neatly in the cardboard carton,
like a piece of fallen moon in a desert crater. I pocketed the egg with care, and left
our cramped cottage. I drove past the grocery store and football fields,
until I reached his new bed of silence. If he were alive under the dirt,
his snores would wake the neighbors.The crows in the distance made jokes
about me. They thought I was another clinging widow. I cracked the shell on his tombstone,
watched the yellow dot the sod.
Tim Neil is a recent graduate of Towson University, where he received a BFA in Acting. He lives in Baltimore, MD.
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