Teardrops on Cornbread
There’s no need to cry,
he tells himself over and
over and over as he eats
his evening cereal, a man
tra in tempo with his clen
ching teeth against the
sogged cornbread, his
mouth otherwise awash
with buttermilk, the tall
spoon dinging the tall
glass still half full as he
stirs and he stirs, his
anxiety growing more
overbearing with each
clink. he sits alone in
his kitchen, the lights
dimmed almost to
darkness. He keeps
reaching his hand
to the chair at his
right but there’s
no one there. Oh,
what an adventure
you’re going to have!
he thinks he hears his
dead wife say as the
tears roll on, salting
the stew of buttermilk
and cornbread as he
stirs and with an
urgency takes the
tears back in by
way of the long
spoon, not missing
one single drip of
milk or bread in
the dark.
