Devotion

The egg rests in your hand, its tips pinpricked, everything inside drained out. Using light strokes and thin-hair brushes, you color the delicate shell, careful not to shatter that fragility which houses nothing..

Listless in her bed, her eyes remain open, focused on a point on the ceiling. You’ve tried to reach her before, never successful.

You fill the tub with warm water and litter the surface with red leaves—poinsettias. A small tribute to someone you still love.

Hefting her, one arm slid beneath the hollow of her knees, the other wrapped across the back of her shoulders, you bring her to the bath, set her in the water.

Soft sponge applied with a gentle touch. She doesn’t react. She never does.

The nurses, sometimes touched by your devotion, wait until the last possible moment, and then allow you a final kiss before asking you to leave.

Outside, in a rusting Rambler parked under an oak, your lover waits reading. She doesn’t ask why anymore, only agrees to drive you every first Sunday of the month. She understands, your lover does, what you share with your wife is much deeper than just devotion.