There’s a moment
my life keeps circling back to—
a quiet house,
an ordinary afternoon,
my hand on a door
that used to mean nothing.
Before that moment
the world was still in one piece.
Bills on the table.
Shoes by the couch.
The sound of the kids
arguing about a cartoon
down the hall.
I didn’t know
a life could split
between two seconds.
The one before
I turned the handle.
And the one after.
People say
I was strong.
They say someone had to find you.
They say it was better
that it was me.
But sometimes
I wish it had been anyone else.
A stranger.
A neighbor.
The police.
Anyone whose memories of you
wouldn’t have shattered
in the same instant.
Because I try to remember you
the way you were—
laughing in the kitchen,
dancing with the kids
while the radio played,
falling asleep on the couch
with your head on my shoulder.
But some nights
my mind goes back
to that room,
to the silence
that answered when I called your name.
And I hate that
the last thing my eyes saw
of the woman I loved
was not your smile,
not your voice,
not the way you used to look
when you watched the kids play—
but a moment
I would give anything
to return to a door
I never opened.