He walked across the hardwood floor and he wondered if it missed her steps like he did. He wondered if it ever asked the chair why her feet no longer gracefully kissed it or danced upon it. Or if the chair ever answered or wondered in reply. He wondered if the chair ever missed her tush and the warmth it felt from a nice long dinner and deep philosophical or simple and silly conversation. And if the table ever missed her cute little elbows as they rested, content from the satisfying meal she just cooked them.
He thought they must.
He felt like the walls had to miss seeing her beautiful face as she waltzed around the house like a ballroom full of dancers. Each elegant step, the brushstrokes of an artist. That they must miss the smells that she filled it with. The tomatoes slowly roasting in oil, the tender meat being grilled, the vegetables cooking in whatever delicious marinade she threw together, the bread baking. And the scent of her vanilla, light and airy, whipped cream for the nose, that slowly sauntered through their home like a Chinese lantern festival. That the shiny silverware must miss her delicate and petite hands as she made them dinner every night.
And as he loaded the washer with a pile of worn clothes, he wondered if it missed her garments. He wondered if it missed gently soaking her pants in it’s cold and then hot springtime shower. Or if it missed the soft touch of her lace panties against it. Or did it miss her smell? God he missed her smell. He missed the smell of her sweat. The smell of her sweet perfume. The smell of her on his clothes and his body. He missed it all. Waking up in the middle of the night, his nose being filled with the scent of her hair as she rested against his chest.
And as he looked out into the lush green forest of grass that he weekly tamed, and as he focused on the flowering cherry blossom that captivated his attention with it’s vibrant, winter shattering colors, and as he listened to the sweet melodic songbirds welcoming the warmth of the season of life, he wondered if they missed her voice like he did. The songs she’d sing, the soundtrack of their wonderful lives together. He wondered if they missed singing back to her as she hung their clothes on the line, them harmonizing with her melodic and enchanting tune. Did the grass miss pillowing her feet? Did the mosquitoes miss landing on her silky smooth skin, tasting heaven? Did the sun miss gently kissing her face as she looked up to enjoy it’s bright rays or the cool breeze miss enshrouding her body in it’s whispers? Did the world miss clothing her in it’s splendor like she did everything she touched or came in contact with? Did it all long for her like he did? Did the strawberries crave her lips like his did? Did the sheets hunger for her naked body like him? Did the April showers miss bathing her like he did? Did the world miss submitting itself to her, giving itself for her so that she could enjoy it, and then seeing itself reflected in the wonder that it saw in her eyes every… single… day…?