My dead husband
       

                                never wore a watch
or was ready to leave on time. He thought
I should wash my car more often, hated
cell phones except when he borrowed mine.
Even with the window open, his showers
built up so much steam the smoke detector
chirped. He needed more sleep than me,
ate food I wouldn't touch—white bread,
bologna, frozen pizzas tasting of cardboard.
Although his size could make him seem
intimidating, he made friends everywhere
because he was so kind. He'd love
that people talk about his jokes, how warm
his smile was. He wouldn't want me
to point out that sometimes he was lonely, too,
loaded down with worries he only told
to me. My dead husband had amazing legs.
He was great at Wheel of Fortune, math,
and understanding puns on license plates.
He never put the scissors back where they
belonged. He left the lids off condiments,
left mud and dirty dishes all over the house.
At least twice a week he lost his keys
and temper, apologized by being silent
until I gave in. Every night he watched
the local news and told me what I'd missed.
He also always did the decorating. He didn't
have the greatest taste, but it was better
than blank walls. He clipped coupons
and read the grocery ad, kept a notebook
of products I used—tampons, lotion,
deodorant—so he'd buy the right brands.
When I mention my dead husband
in the present tense, I make myself go back
and clarify. He'd prefer I use a euphemism—
late, departed, passed—would say
it isn't nice to like when people flinch.
I'm not as angry as I was right after
he died, but I no longer let him vote
at family meetings. Sometimes I'm jealous
that he'll never have to change, reshape
his life all on his own. My dead husband
couldn't stand for me to be upset.
No matter what the problem was,
he'd swear we'd be okay, make jokes
to show at least we had each other.
I can't imagine what he'd say right now.

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Copyright © 2021 Carrie Shipers All rights reserved
from Grief Land
University of New Mexico Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission