Between Urn and Blanket

She moves through the corridor like a question  

no one’s dared to answer,  

every footstep a quiet confession.

The bedroom is a cave of half-light,  

where she traces the shape of absence  

on a pillow too wide for one.

In the corner rests a small vessel—  

warm to her palm,  

though nothing inside can breathe again.

Across the room, a child’s blanket  

folded like a promise—  

threads soft with a laugh she still remembers.

She lays her head first on porcelain,  

then on woven cotton,  

soft interlude before the night stretches on.

Each breath a tether  

to two distant worlds—  

one quiet as snow, one restless as wind.

She wonders if the moon keeps watch,  

if it knows her secret vigil  

by urn and blanket’s mercy.

Her husband’s bed waits  

like a plea she isn’t yet ready to answer,  

sheets empty of her mourning.

Tonight she lives between loss and love,  

cradling memory and hope  

until grief loosens its hold.

Soon, she tells herself,  

the walls will shift,  

and she’ll slip back into shared warmth.

But for now she lies apart,  

a silent vow on her lips—  

to return when the hollow has healed.