When Edgar awoke to a dissipating fog
outside the bedroom window
where he and Julia were wont to hold one another
the snow was melting
Soon the buds of springtime would begin to swell
The accumulation of leaves against
his ordinary chain linked fence
bothered him most,
second only to the wrinkled October tomato vines,
the defunct salsa garden he and Julia planted,
her yet to sprout herbal domain –
the spearmint leaves she dipped into morning tea
Saddened at her garden’s demise,
Edger pondered his life into the coming nature cycle,
their plantations of high hopes ravaged last August
by marauding squirrels,
grubs sliming through Julia’s plantings,
the prospect of the return of aphids into her flower beds,
leftovers on pear trees dried to nubs
Edger had no choice but to think of his grass whip,
mulching or be left with patches of naughty weeds
The books he intended to read in Julia’s absence
sagged on the shelves of their once treasured library
His fireplace wood had molded:
infested by borer bees
that scattered throughout his living room
from the three logs he lit on a January night
when he had planned to pour a glass of wine,
prop his feet on an ottoman and blubber about Julia
“Oh, what the hay,” Edgar cursed
“Why not just burn the whole damn joint down?
Wear a hair shirt for chrissakes,
meditate as Buddhists do,
transmigrate into deism,
rubberband what’s left of hair into a ponytail,
haul water from a stream,
hammer up a simple outhouse over a trench,
dig a compost”
Had Julia been at the kitchen table sipping lukewarm tea,
she would have compiled her queenie list
for Edgar to scratch off item per item,
check the results, wisecrack about his artlessness
Now, he was forced to change bed sheets without her help,
wash and fold underwear neatly per Julia’s deathbed instructions,
work up the energy to empty the trash,
shovel a path through the snow for the mailman
With breast cancer dragging her into the nether world,
Julia tried to make it painless for him to say goodbye
He could see that now; how she pulled the whole deal off —
left a dish of her special eggplant lasagna in the freezer,
slices of peach pie, each slice individually wrapped in foil,
his favorite, and two loaves of her potluck renown banana bread
Years of Julia’s recipes sat fingerprinted with lard
in heirloom tin boxes,
mysterious in their cryptic jargon,
unfathomable to the culinary neophyte
“So much to do, not a soul to help,” Edgar sighed
“Oh, Edgar,“ he could hear Julia snapping orders
through the kitchen window: “Cut it out, will you?
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, you moron
Just get on with the program, damn you!”
Program? What program?
He had no program, only wishes
He wished for the magical return of the lawn:
front terrace mowed trim for appearances;
backyard wild with prairie grass daydreams
He sat for hours on the cement garden bench
admiring the scattered groves of ornamental trees
soon to gambol and sway in summer breezes,
Julia’s “babies,” the twigs she watered so diligently,
and the slatted fence he nailed up as backdrop
for three rows of Country Gentleman corn
“Such a long wait,” Edgar sighed again,
between the last day of March,
and planting season