Alexa Daskalakis

​After Him

After someone, there's still a way you move.

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The baby touched his shirt buttons
one by one,
then gripped his finger like a handle.
She didn’t cry that night.

⸻

He liked the house warm,
so I kept the oven on
even when I wasn’t cooking.
My knees would sweat against the tile.
He’d kiss my shoulder and say,
“Good.”

⸻

I never touched his keys.
I waited in the car
with my hands folded
until he opened the door.

⸻

If I spoke too softly at restaurants,
he’d tilt his head and say,
“Say it again. I like when you repeat things.”
So I did.
Exactly the same.

⸻

At night, he left water by the bed.
Always on my side.
Even when he was angry.

⸻

I made dinner every night
unless he said not to.
Then I waited—
still in the apron—
just in case he changed his mind.

⸻

Now I eat early.
Mostly soups.
The radio stays on
because silence feels rude.

⸻

I still fold the napkins the way he liked.
Diagonal.
Pressed flat.

⸻

There’s a coat of his in the front closet.
I dust the shoulders,
but never move it.
It still smells like the month before.

⸻

The girls at the market
call me Miss even now.
I don’t correct them.
I was his.

⸻

No one else ever told me
where to stand
and made it feel like safety.

⸻

He’s been gone twenty years.
I still ask before I turn off the light.