© DOCKYARD PRESS
by Ann Dagan
I wake alone.
She’s gone again.
I move through the days quietly, carefully, doing what needs done, filling the time. Watching, waiting for a sign she’s returned.
Each day she is gone is harder than the last. Each day she is gone adds a day to the journey back.
At night I sleep in fits, awakened by every sound, and no sound at all.
Now and then, her ghost appears. I catch a glimpse here and there, but it’s not her.
I leave offerings- a glass of water, a bowl of soup. They go untouched.
The vodka bottle is nearly empty. She’ll be back soon.